Shadowcats and Direwolves
by Dracones
Summary: Thousands of Northmen were at the Twins, when Walder Frey made his move. A dozen people had heard of Robb's plans to name Jon his heir. One signed document pertaining to the latter lay amidst hundreds of tents and people. And, doubtless, there were guards at Robb's tent; and who's to say one of them didn't put two and two together? (Manderly isn't a character! What the hell!)
1. The Escape of the Twins

**Shadowcats and Direwolves.**

**There were thousands of Northmen at the Twins, when Walder Frey made his move. There were a dozen people who had heard of Robb's plans to name Jon his heir. There was one signed document pertaining to the latter amidst hundreds of tents and people. And, doubtless, there were guards at Robb's tent; and who's to say one of them didn't put two and two together?**

* * *

It had been a normal night of guard duty, until the first barrel of burning pitch was fired into the camp.

Four men had been guarding the Young Wolf's tent that night, one on each corner. Two, Glover men, had left to fetch the next shift not three minutes ago. At the first sign of danger, the other, an Umber, narrowed his eyes, drew his sword (which looked suspiciously like it had gone through at least three battles without cleaning or sharpening), and, despite Kennet's belated call, charged towards the Twins.

That left the Karstark man alone to question what exactly was going on. He knew little but the fact that the castle the King in the North had entered recently was firing on them, so, somehow, they had made enemies of Walder Frey.

Normally Kennet would laugh at the prospect of the fat man being a valid threat, but the burning tents not a hundred metres from him and the horsemen silhouetted behind them were all too close for that.

The army caught off guard, drinking - as most of the soldiers who hadn't drawn Guard duty would be, - left Kennet little room for delusion; this would be a massacre and a rout. And without the King, who was inside the Twins -

Which had turned against them.

King Robb, King in the North, King at the Trident, the Young Wolf, Lord Stark, Victor of a dozen battles (so it was told), was resoundingly and doubtlessly dead.

So there Kennet stood, stock still, guarding the possessions of a dead man. In the tent would be maps, plans, letters, correspondences; items maybe invaluable to the North and its' bannermen, who were like as not dying in droves.

He ripped the fabric door, tied shut, carelessly apart; who would search an already-searched tent? It would buy him time.

The tent was modest, but Kennet had heard as much previously. The main point of interest was the desk. He was fortunate that his father, in Karhold, had taught him the letters he'd learned himself at a young age and never forgotten; but Karhold was never further from his mind.

He grabbed as much as he could, already feeling a rush of heat he imagined to be akin to Dorne as the fire spread and was spread by the trebuchets. Letters, little notes, a bag to put them in, a parchment that had a shitload of signatures he wasn't bothered enough to decipher as well as a few seals, and finally, from under the bed and the pillow respectively, a short sword and a dagger.

Then he ran. The fire was almost all around, all but a quarter of his surroundings. He ran for the gap, praying to the gods for safety as he passed a man on the floor; drunk or dead, he didn't have the time to check.

He passed the flames, and only stopped another hundred feet past, at the edge of the camp of hastily erected tents that had sprawled outwards from the almost encircled feast-tents-turned-massacre-scenes.

He had a bag full of documents of undetermined value, a short sword, (the King's,) a dagger, (likewise,) his own longsword, spear, and knife, the clothes on his back and not much else.

He wore his spear strapped to his back, his sword on his right hip, as he was left-handed, the short-sword on his right, his knife was strapped to his left calf, something to come up with if he lost a weapon and rolled in evasion, and the dagger he had yet to find a place for; for now it was adorning his belt.

To get anywhere he'd need supplies, but the cooks' tents were last in the column; that meant they would have been close to the feast tents, and that area was nearly an inferno as well.

Kennet wouldn't shirk from filching from men likely dead, as he'd proven already; there were a few supplies of varying kinds in the tents next to him, as it turned out; at least there had been. The Kingsroad was not far; he would head North. Karhold was not such a distance away as it might be, he could get a ship from White Harbour, and he knew villages on the way where more supplies could be purchased. On the way, he could read the letters and choose his next course of action.

He turned his back on the fire and blood behind him, took his spear off his back and held it horizontal - so as not to be seen from afar - and set off. The night was dark, and with a moon; a good night for walking, for hiding, and for escaping with his life.

Kennet might not necessarily be a man of honor, but he was a man of prudence, who recognised a lost cause when he saw one. The fight for the North was not lost. The fight for the King in the North was.

* * *

The remainder of the night and most of the next day of travelling, hiding, and sleeping later, Kennet turned off the path at the side of a stream to fill his bottles, and in the fading light of day, settled down to read the letters and documents.

There were letters in the manner which great Lords would send, of alliances and treaties, of a potential peace with the Lannisters in exchange for extortionate hostage releases and conceeded territories that Kennet wasn't surprised had been rejected. There were messages, well worn-out from the movements of hands, detailing troop movements, scout reports, battle plans, and so on. And there was a single Royal Decree.

It was a parchment affixed with the seals of the great houses of the North and those sworn to Robb Stark, as well as the signings of each particular Lord. Most prominent was the Direwolf of Stark, at the top of the page.

It read thus;

_In the name of Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North and King of the Trident, trueborn son of Eddard Stark, and with the full recognition and support of the Lords and houses whose seals are affixed, the man known as Jon Snow, natural-born son of Eddard Stark, is hereby legitimised and named the heir of the King in the North and the King of the Trident._

_Should Robb Stark, the King in the North and the King of the Trident, fall, in battle or sickness, in the absence of any male son by Queen Jeyne Westerling, Jon Stark, formerly Jon Snow, will be recognised and acknowledged by the Lords stated as their King._

_Any vows he has sworn to the contrary, whether to the Night's Watch or any other party, are hereby revoked by this Royal Decree._

_The mentioned party, Jon Stark, is hereby summoned to the side of the King in the North and the King of the Trident, Robb Stark._

_All parties sworn to the King in the North and the King of the Trident are to see that this decree is enforced, by any and all means necessary, preferably supplying the Night's Watch with men and food supplies as compensation for the summoning of Jon Stark from their most esteemed and recognised ranks._

From that point, the list of names of Lords and knights was compressed into a rather small section of the page, at the bottom, but Kennet could make out the names and titles of all the Lords who had travelled in their company from Riverrun, the names of Bolton and Karstark being glaringly absent.

The North could rally again, it seemed, not as strong as it had been before the Twins had played their hand and broke guest right, but strong enough to gain an independence at least. But likely all the Lords that had signed the parchment were dead, and their heirs maybe too, and their castellans and families might not hold the same opinion. They would be hard to sway to the cause, certainly; a show of strength and revenge against both the Boltons and the Ironborn would do it.

The question of how immediately sprang to Kennet's mind. Certainly he could not help the cause from outside of the North. If he could return there, however... Not all of the North had unified their troops to head south at Robb Stark's call. They had set off once the Umbers and the Karstarks had arrived, but the loyal mountain clans had not the time to unify and pool their strength, and their force of likely two to four thousand had been left.

However, there would be no ravens to small villages such as those of the clans. And they were amongst the northernmost Northerners, too, reportedly only the Mormonts and Umbers being close to that distance.

The Mormonts were a potential answer, yes, but only if a raven could be sent, and Kennet didn't happen to have one of those on him.

The Manderlys would have ravens, as would any other lord with a castle, admittedly, but White Harbour was close, and Kennet had travelled there before, with and without his father, on trading missions. He had contacts who could gain him an audience with Wyman Manderly, and he could plan more on the way.

But the problem remained of how to get there. Nothing he could use, to the best of Kennet's knowledge, would allow him past Moat Cailin; the only path to the North by foot. The Ironborn would never allow a Northman through.

Kennet sighed as he unfurled one last parchment, not the last of those he'd taken, but likely the last he could read before sunset, given it's size.

His eyes scanned the large map of Westeros, which ranged from the Wall to King's Landing, and various inscriptions and sketching caught his eye.

One arrow led down the Kingsroad past the Twins to the Green Fork, an arrow labelled "Bolton." An arrow had diverged from it at the Twins, leading to Riverrun through the Whispering Wood. It was labelled "Stark." Many more circled around the Westerlands, at locations Kennet recognised - and where he'd fought.

It was the Young Wolf's battle plans.

But one location had been circled that Kennet had never paid attention to, and had arrows leading to and from it. The arrow leading North of the Twins had a small branch off it to Seaguard, from Seaguard up the coast, and from the coast into the marshes. It was labelled "Stark Banners," and it led to Greywater Watch. From Greywater Watch, an arrow curled to meet the main arrow, and at that point, another section, labelled "Stark," curled out to flank Moat Cailin, while the main arrow headed up the causeway.

The Reeds of Greywater Watch had been allies of the North for centuries. They would not turn down a chance to save it, and they were his chance to get through.

Kennet rolled and tied the map once again, as the sun set slowly. He set off towards a copse, ready to roll out his blankets and bed down for the night in preparation for the journey North the next day. It was a long time since he'd been home, but he feared it would take him a bit longer yet.


	2. The Blackmyres of the Myrehill

**Chapter 2 is here! I'm trying to stay true to the books in that the Reeds aren't the only house in the Neck, and I simply adore Valyrian Steel for whatever reason, and those two facts kinda shaped this chapter.**

**By the way, updates will be slow for both this and A Struggle of Blood from now on. Essentially, this is because I have two stories on the go and no more chapters already written for either. If I don't find time, chapters can't go up. I will do my utmost to keep some kind of pace up on both of them.**

**Oh, and by the way; to those readers who've included this story into their three communities; thank you very much, and I greatly appreciate it!**

* * *

It was three days, by foot, to the edge of the Marshes; and a weary three days at that. When Kennet's shoes had started squelching with each step he knew he was close, and when he crested the next ridge, reeds and bogs and trees were all he could see to either side of the road. His relief was palpable enough that he took the time to pitch his grey, much-repaired tent, and he looked out across the waters afterwards.

Now came the quandary of what exactly to do, in order to get the attention of a Crannogmen.

Shouting would do little to entice these little-seen, less-known people, nor to endear himself to them.

Walking into the swamp would likely give him some disease or get him killed.

He set about with the short sword, chopping as much as he could of the vegetation on a nearby rise down and apart. In a couple of hours he had a tired pair of arms and a large amount of wood.

There were about four hours until sunset, and, intending to let the fire burn through as much of the night as possible (with his help), he settled into his tent and checked through the small number of papers that remained to be read. However, none were of particular value, nor interest, and he settled to reading through Robb Stark's last Royal Decree, and thinking on the future.

Without the decree, the North had no heir apparent nor heir to rally around. Without it, so separate, the Lords of the North could fight of no cohesive threat, particularly with the Ironborn occupation to contend with and no strong army heading North.

He could not turn the war by this point, Kennet realised. Many losses had been sustained. Heirs to houses killed and captured. Lords killed or captured. The Northmen would have no desire for a war in the south any more. Their liegelords there were likely captured or dead. Their families and friends the same.

It would be far easier to unify for independence than to fight for revenge.

But they needed a Stark. And this Jon, of whom Kennet knew nothing, was the best chance they had.

* * *

A few hours had passed, and Kennet struck up the fire with his flint and steel. There was an hour of sunlight left, he guessed, but there would be no harm in allowing the Crannogmen to see smoke from the leafy, wet fuel, which would produce particularly dark, visible smoke. The kindling caught on the third try.

He blew on the dry moss, coaxed it to spread, and moved it into the small pile of twigs and more moss. First the moss caught, then the twigs, causing black smoke to rise.

He began building the fire up, with various larger sizes of wood, deal and living. In half an hour it was producing distinctive amounts of black smoke from quite a large pile, and he still had as much wood again to keep it going with, but he returned to the trees to cut as much wood as he could while it was still light.

Kennet returned with a decent amount about half an hour later, and sat in front of the fire, it's warmth on his back and the swamplands at the front.

Besides the crackling of the fire, there were several noises of the night that reached Kennet's ears. Firstly, some kind of croaking noise came up at regular intervals. The odd splash of a water-creature was audible, and he once heard the hoot of an owl and the _swoosh_ of it's wings overhead.

A smell of peat perfumed the air, but in the blackness ahead he could see none of the swampland he knew lay there, treacherous terrains and stagnant water and all. It was black as pitch.

It was an hour and a half since sunset when, for the first time, he heard the snapping of a twig to his side, a way away.

He kept his lulling head where it was, and kept his ear ready for more sounds, either breathing or a footstep.

After a small but tense period, he heard a relieved sigh, then a step. He determined it to be about a spear's lunge away, and turned his head sharply.

"I mean you no harm," he said as he twisted, to find the point of a spear about the length of his forearm away from his face, gleaming in the firelight. "I mean no harm but to those who wished harm upon the King in the North, for whom I fought."

"Wished?" was the only reply of the small man with the mud-covered face and the spear.

"It was four days past that Robb Stark's army halted at the Twins for the marriage of Edmure Tully. While the nobles and knights were feasted in the castle, the troops remained outside and drank and laughed with the Frey troops. I was guarding the Young Wolf's tent. The Twins fired catapults at our troops and their men set upon ours. A ruthless and savage trap, in which the Young Wolf doubtless died, along with countless men, common and noble."

"And you?" questioned the Crannogman.

"I knew the King was lost, and so I took many documents from his tent and supplies from others around me and fled, hoping to make a difference to what remains of the war effort."

"How?"

"Take me to Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. There is a Royal Decree in my tent which must pass the Neck if the North is to unify again."

The Crannogman considered, tilting his head. "Blindfold," he finally said.

Kennet nodded, but as he did so, he felt a hit to the back of his head.

He felt someone catch him, and felt very little after that.

* * *

He awoke in a splash of cold water over his face, drenching his middle-length hair and irritating him. He sat sharply, gasping, blinking, and snapping his head from side to side. It was a few seconds before he began to properly notice his surroundings, and they surprised him somewhat.

He was not in a cell, but in a small, dark room, sitting on a chair. Two people sat opposite him, one the man he'd spoken to earlier, one a slightly taller man who, to Kennet's surprise, wore a sheathed sword. This man had a pale face, a thin nose, a thick black beard, and long matted hair.

Another man was leaving, bucket in hand.

"Where am I?" Kennet inquired. "Is this Greywater Watch?" As he said this he glanced to the man, presumably a hunter or patroller of some kind, who'd said "blindfold" before Kennet fell unconscious.

"No," the other man said. "You sit in the keep of House Blackmyre, mine own House, in which you are a guest. This is The Myrehill."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Blackmyre." Kennet had little else to say; he would not offend the man by asking questions of him in his own home.

"You say you have news of the war. Of the death of the Young Stark at the hands of the Freys."

"Yes, my lord. I believe you have heard what I have to say on the matter."

"And I have read your documents, too. They are what convinced me you were no liar."

"How so?" Kennet inquired.

"No enemy of the Starks would allow such a valuable piece of documentation out of their hands." The Crannogman picked the scroll from it's unnoticed position next to his chair and handed it back. "I have made an adjustment. I hope you do not mind."

Kennet frowned and glanced down. It all seemed the same. No words added or removed from the main text.

"Check the bottom," said the Lord of the Myrehill. Inscribed near the bottom was the name "Lord Darion Blackmyre," and stamped next to it was the Blackmyre crest, a crossed sword and spear.

"I thank you for your support of the rightful King, Lord Darion," Kennet said. Darion Blackmyre nodded. "However, I needs must-"

"Cross the Neck."

"Indeed."

"I will have a man escort you to Greywater Watch. It is a day's travel away by foot and half that by pontoon. From there, Lord Howland can sign that paper on behalf of the rest of the Lords of the Neck, as well as provide you with passage through the swamp and perhaps beyond."

"All the help of the Lords of the Neck is most graciously appreciated, Lord Darion."

"Thank you, my friend," the small man replied, "though I do not know your name."

"My name is Kennet, my lord."

"Kennet..." Lord Darion mused. "You wouldn't happen to be from around Queenscrown, would you?"

"No, my lord."

"Your father, then, or your mother?"

"I have never met my mother, and I know not from whence my father hails."

Lord Darion studied his face for a while, before shrugging. "You remind me of a man I once drew swords alongside, is all."

"It struck me as curious, my lord, that you do hold a sword rather than a spear, as I believe most Crannogmen prefer. Would it perhaps be that which is on your seal?"

"Indeed," Lord Darion smiled. "House Blackmyre holds one of only two Valyrian Steel blades in the Neck. This is Blackedge," he declared, drawing it carefully from the sheath.

The ripples in the steel glinted in the faint light. The blade did indeed have a darker tint to it. It was a shortsword, that much was plain, and it was clearly deadly.

"Incredible," Kennet said, reverently.

"It is a treasure. House Quagg would tell you that their Rippletorn is the keenest blade in the Neck, but they would tell you false. Theirs has a keen edge - nothing holds an edge like Valyrian Steel - but it is too long. It nearly matches the Stark blade for size, it is unbalanced; and it glistens. One cannot conceal it for a second." Lord Darion caressed his steel, almost lovingly for a few seconds, before sheathing it. "But I digress. I trust you enjoyed your sleep on the way here. You will not be blindfolded in such a way on the way to Greywater Watch, I can assure you of that."

"I appreciate your kindness, Lord Darion. That particular blindfold was rather uncomfortable."

Darion Blackmyre chuckled. "You will find we were kind enough to bring along all your supplies and gear. We have also provided water for the journey, replaced your spear with one far sturdier and more resilient, and put the documents in a waterproof lizard-lion skin sack, all of which you may keep."

"Many thanks, my lord."

"If you restore a King to the North, it is I who shall have to thank you many times as much, as both a Northman and the Lord of the southernmost house of the Neck. Spare your thanks."

* * *

A short while later, Kennet, and the Crannogmen who'd found him, Calwyn and Ulmerr, set out towards Greywater Watch on a shallow pontoon. Lord Darion , his wife, and his three young children, two girls; Layra, of less than twelve and Katryn, of less than ten, and a boy; Darryn, of less than seven, bade them farewell and safe journey across the Neck. Katryn bore a thin, fabric token, on which the dark spear and sword on a grey background of House Blackmyre were sewn. She smiled prettily as she gave it to him, and so he tied it around his arm.

They pushed off, leaving the bizarrely yet brilliantly disguised floating hill that was The Myrehill and it's occupants behind them, soon vanished in the swamp.


	3. To White Harbour

**Thanks to all who've favourited, followed, reviewed, etc.. I really appreciate the support, and I hope I can get through the next few chapters faster than I did this one.**

**Anyway, I hope you like it!**

* * *

Howland Reed had been every bit as hospitable as Darion Blackmyre. Along with more supplies, a bed for the night, and a meal at his own table, he had given Kennet information on the state of things in the North.

Both Roose Bolton and his bastard had betrayed their people, Ramsay Snow having attacked men of Winterfell and Torrhen's Square at a supposed peace, killing Ser Rodrik Cassel, as well as the young Cerwyn lord. Not to mention the marriage, rape, and abandonment of the Lady Donella Hornwood.

The Watch had sent a Ranging North, investigating the disappearances of both their men and Wildlings. The latest message was that the ravens had returned, message-less, but none of the men. Howland knew not if Jon Stark was there. They could only hope Kennet could reach the place as fast as possible.

It was two days he took to get out of the Marshes, on the same pontoon as he started out with, Calwyn and Ulmerr beside him. They spoke of their families and he spoke of his. Mostly, they paddled, and he tried his hand too; they quickly took back the offer, saying that he made far too much noise.

Kennet thought it best to agree.

They had left him at the edges of the Neck, past Moat Cailin. Calwyn pointed him to the nearest town, Ulmerr told him to take care, and to restore the North it's strength. They vanished from view soon after, as he too left the border of their homes.

Howland had also given Kennet some money, enough to buy a horse at a village on the way to White Harbour. He had done so, a fresh young garron, and he soon crossed the Kingsroad heading east to White Harbour, the Northern trade city.

The garron, named Tor, short for Torrhen, was quieter company than Calwyn, who was always asking questions, and less opinionated than Ulmerr, who was always answering them no matter who they were addressed to. Kennet found he enjoyed the quiet nature of the trek more than he had enjoyed much else recently.

The wide plains of the North that he had always loved were spread before him once again. Their charm far outweighed the woods and streams of the Riverlands, which enclosed you; and certainly hostile mountains of the Westerlands could never match up. The North was wild, the North was free and the North was refreshing in it's vastness.

He rejoiced in breathing it's air again, in the wind on his skin, in what hope he had.

But Kennet knew that the North had it's problems, and they needed solving. The Bolton troops had sacked Winterfell and Ramsay Snow was nowhere to be found but at the Dreadfort, not taken for a thousand years. Not to mention whatever was going on North of the Wall, against the Watch.

But the first thing to do, if they were to have a hope of rectifying the situation, would be to unite the North under the banner of the King. And if Jon Stark was at the Wall, getting to him and convincing him to fight was the first priority.

Of course, ensuring that the North had the men and the soldiers needed to fight would be necessary too. And it was for both of those reasons that White Harbour was the best place to go; a ship to Eastwatch and ravens around the North, and many of their problems might be solved in quick succession.

The process would start with the Manderlys.

He camped within sight of the sea, on the second night. As it turned out, White Harbour was only a few miles away, and he trotted through the gate with Tor bright and early, heading for the market. The guards had let him through, despite his weapons, when he convinced them that he was indeed a loyal Northman of Karhold.

White Harbour was a trade city, through-and-through. Tradesmen of all kinds came from all over the North to buy and to sell. Merchants could operate there better than in any other Northern area. It bustled with activity on most any day; today, however, a sour mood hung over the faces of the merchants and of the stall holders, and the citizens were unhappy too.

He'd received a few odd looks , outfitted as he was; spear, longsword, shortsword, armour clinking in the saddlebags, so Kennet rode to the dockside by following the backstreets and bypassing the busy markets. Once there, he turned Tor and rode the wide seafront, looking for merchants, sailors, or captains he knew, to find out the reason for the dour mood.

He didn't see someone he knew, as it turned out; someone he knew saw him first.

"Kennet? Kennet!" Kennet's head snapped to the side and a smile flew to his face.

"Patrek Stonefrost," he stated, "still lounging around brothels rather than fighting the war, I see."

"One finds me at waterfronts, one find brothels at waterfronts. I'm a captain; I needs must stay near my ship, but I needs must talk to land-dwellers too. Coincidence." The stout man with the short black hair and hooked nose strode forwards, clapping Tor on the neck to reassure him as Kennet stroked the horse. "Speaking of wars," Patrek said, "weren't you supposed to be fighting? And if you aren't any more, have you heard the news from the south?"

Kennet frowned. "If that's the news I think it is, that has the city wrapped in grief, then aye. I have." He sighed. "I have a lot to explain, but I needs must speak to Lord Wyman, soon. Do you know how I might do so, my friend?"

"Lord Wyman's son and heir is dead, alongside the Young Wolf and uncounted others. He will want to be left alone, as far as I can work out." Patrek sighed. "Mayhaps I can arrange something. Mayhaps not. I want to speak to you first though. There's an inn next to my ship. Tie the horse at the inn and drink on the ship."

"The_ Stone Maiden_?"

"The very same. Come on," Patrek said, "we'll talk on board."

* * *

The Stonefrosts descended from the Vale of Arryn as of about two hundred years ago, a particular time period during which the Lord Cole Arryn was rumoured to be far less honourable than the Arryn words implied. When Patrek's ancestors had moved North, they'd attached the suffix -frost, but still enjoyed occasionally claiming their lordly ancestry.

They were merchants, owners of two ships, one of which, the _Stone Maiden_, Patrek commanded; the other, the _Frost Maiden_, was captained by his brother, Hawick.

Kennet knew the family through his father, Tristan, who was a relatively wealthy merchant operating out of Karhold. However, he also spent time elsewhere, particularly Widow's Watch for whatever reason, and would often leave Kennet in charge of continuing the business, trading, and so forth.

It meant that he'd spent a lot of time talking to people like Patrek, as he was now, and had become good friends with him rather than just occasional business partners.

And this was strictly business.

* * *

"I drew guard duty, that night at the Twins, guarding the King's tent. When the Freys started to fire on the troops, I knew they'd betrayed us; I took any documents I could from the tent and escaped the flames that were almost surrounding me. I headed North, read the documents, went via the Crannogmen past Moat Cailin. The Crannogmen gave me money for a horse, but that's not the important bit. Read this. It's essentially King Robb's will."

Kennet removed the parchment from his bag and slid it carefully across the table. Patrek picked it up.

"I will say this now; Lord Manderly needs to see this. The future of the North depends on it."

Patrek was already reading. Kennet waited for the response. It was not long in coming.

"We have a King again," stated Patrek Stonefrost. "We have a fight to be fought. You will have your audience with Lord Manderly. A man who trusts me meets with Wyman tomorrow. He shall take us with him." Patrek stood. "I'll make the arrangements. You find a proper stable for that horse and have a drink or a woman. Relax. I'll meet you here at nightfall, or earlier."

Kennet found a stable, not fifty metres from the seafront, and paid a few silver Stags for the day and the night, but had no inclination to pay the same for a woman. He had little money as it was without wasting it. He'd left his weapons in Patrek's cabin on the Stone Maiden, besides his knife and the King's dagger, as well as the documents; most of the day remained.

He spent an hour or so inquiring around the harbour as to the whereabouts of his father, and received various replies; from "Karhold, last I heard, 'bout a month ago" to "Widow's Watch again, lad, since last week at least" to "He was here three weeks ago!"

Kennet knew that their ship, the _Shadowcat_, was not in the bay; her distinctive black hull and sails striped grey-white would stand out in any port, though she tended to arrive at night. Though he had been taught how to trade, and how to fight, by his father, sailing was the skill that Tristan had not passed on.

Most of the remainder of the day Kennet spent wandering the city, the marketplaces, speaking to people and browsing goods, though he brought nothing.

A short while before sunset, Kennet walked down to the harbour again. He clambered onto the sea wall that blocked the waves from the harbour, keeping in careful contact with the wall at all times. He sat, slowly, surely, and watched the waves.

When the wind grew more blustery, and Kennet's ears and nose felt the cold sea wind, he slid back down to the dock and slowly walked back to the _Stone Maiden_.

"Kennet!" Patrek grinned, "Good to know I didn't imagine you. Anyway, it's agreed. We're seeing Manderly. Tomorrow. Best get some sleep."

"Yes," Kennet said, but his mind was elsewhere. "Patrek, would you know where my father is?"

Patrek shrugged. "If in doubt, Widow's Watch. That's how it goes."

Kennet nodded, but did not say a word. His father was mysteriously stuck in his ways, as well as stubborn, and cunning in his own style. He had a way of making things turn out well for him that was uncanny. And Kennet could never really work him out.


	4. The Lord of White Harbour

**Sorry, people, this one's taken a while. It wasn't easy to get into the swing of this one, I'm not sue why, but here it is. I hope you like it!**

* * *

The merchant Patrek had spoken of was Willhem Mallann, a wealthy merchant, one of the richest in the city, and a friend of the Manderlys for years. He had paid the Stonefrosts well for captaining two of three ships of his that had escaped an attack by pirates, and equally as well for their younger brother, Brynden, who had died particularly valiantly, defending one of the six that had been sunken or taken. It was his payment that allowed them to build the Stone Maiden, his support that gained them some wealth and some status amongst tradesmen and merchants alike.

Kennet's father had been known to resent the man his inherited fortune, though not, Kennet noted, his skills in trading and dealing. Willhem, he said, hadn't had to build business from nothing, hadn't known loss or weakness beforehand, just did as his family always had, not changing it.

Nonetheless, Kennet admired Willhem his skill, and was certainly pleased enough that the merchant was able to gain both himself and Patrek an audience with Wyman Manderly.

"Kennet," Kennet said by way of introduction, when Patrek took him to the man's offices near the dockside.

"Willhem Mallann," said the man with the greying hair and pale face, shaking the proffered hand. "I've heard your name before; your father runs some land-based business from Karhold, does he not?"

"From Kartown, more specifically, but yes. He also does trade by sea-"

"On that Shadowcat of his, yes. Tristan was his name..." Willhem's eyes grew sharp and narrowed. "Any surname, do you know?"

"If so, I have neither heard it used, not been told of it." Willhem nodded.

"Patrek has assured me of both your loyalty and your message's importance to the North, and I have contacted Lord Wyman stating such. He has requested a meeting before the midday meal, if that would be acceptable?"

Kennet glanced to Patrek, who met his gaze, looked back to Willhem, and said, "I believe we may require more time than that, to fully explain the situation."

"Planning for the future would also be required," Kennet put in. "The sooner we act, the more time we have, the better we can organise an utilise our resources."

Willhem glanced from Kennet to Patrek, where his eyes rested. "Then we go now," he said.

* * *

They were admitted soon enough, after a quick message and reply from the gatekeepers to Lord Manderly, and Willhem led the three into the New Castle.

It was not far to the Merman's Court, the hall where Lord Manderly held feasts and court, but they were not meeting there. The servant who'd come to them had stated that Lord Wyman would speak to Willhem in their usual meeting place, which, it appeared, was further from the entrance than Kennet might have liked. However, he did remember the way well; it was simple enough.

Willhem stopped outside a room with guards on the doors, Manderly Mermen on their chests. They recognised him, and allowed him to knock on the door, wait for an "Enter!" from within, and push open the entrance.

Lord Wyman, as was widely known across Westeros, was a large man. Kennet tried his best to avoid staring at the man's girth, as he would need the best first impression possible if he was to persuade the man adequately to throw his strength behind a new King, when it was not necessarily his obligation to do so.

Kennet kept the scrolls under his arm tightly held as he looked into the eyes of the Lord of White Harbour. As Wyman sat on a wide chair, built for more than one person and with limited space, his calm, assessing eyes scanning the two people he did not know, his eyes had alighted on the parchment several times; much to Kennet's surprise, he had become somewhat possessive over the documents; evidenced well enough by his tightening grip.

He loosened it almost sheepishly.

The room was lavish, to be sure; drapes and fittings, blue, green, and white, hung from the walls; the large amount of furniture, delicately decorated but robustly built, was arranged comfortably around the large room. Wyman's seating place had a table in front of it, on which were arranged several small seafood dishes, but they were to one side, as a small amount of parchment and ink was occupying the rest of the table space.

"Willhem, my good man, would you consider introducing your companions?" Lord Manderly asked, smiling slightly at his friend but his gaze still piercing.

"Certainly, Lord Wyman." Willhem put a hand on Patrek's shoulder. "This is Patrek Stonefrost. He and his brother Hawick captained two of my ships of the three that survived the Lyseni pirate attack three years ago, and their other brother Brynden, who bravely defended one of the six that sunk. They've been friends and trading allies of mine since, and now own ships of their own.

"He came to my offices yesterday afternoon, stating that a friend of his needed to see you urgently. I agreed, and this morn, met Kennet here, who says he bears something of great importance to the North."

Wyman's eyes turned to Kennet, eyebrows raised. "Kennet, was it?"

"Yes, my Lord," Kennet nodded.

"Would this thing of such importance be the parchment you bear?"

"Indeed, my Lord." Kennet took a breath. "This is as close as any man is like to find to the Will of the King in the North, Robb Stark."

Willhem gasped, Patrek nodded grimly, and Lord Wyman narrowed his eyes. "How did you obtain this?"

"I was at the Twins that night, my Lord, when the Freys betrayed the North. I do not know if you know the details, know that I do not know many of them. I am no knight, no heir, but a merchant's son and a soldier. I drew watch at the King's tent. When the Frey catapults started to fire on the camp, I took what supplies I could from the King's tent and I headed Northward. I also took this." Kennet proffered the document. Wyman took it.

He read fast, narrowing his eyes at the bottom so as to discern the many names written there, and the seals.

"And so you returned here, via the Crannogmen houses of the Neck," Lord Manderly concluded.

"Indeed, my Lord. They were most hospitable; Howland Reed provided me with money for a horse."

"You have read it. You know what it says."

"I know what it means, my Lord Manderly," Kennet stated.

"What does it mean for my son, then, Kennet? What of Ser Wylis Manderly? He is captive at Harrenhal, held hostage to my actions. What of my heir?" Wyman's temper grew short. "If he is to live, I must act as if loyal to the Lannister cause. I cannot support Jon Stark, for fear of the end of my line."

"Then you must act, Lord Manderly," Kennet stated. He removed from under his arm the map of Westeros, that which had been King Robb's. "Give the appearance of loyalty, while galvanising the North to action. The Mountain Clans have expended no strength in this war. Send a raven to the Mormonts, tell them to rally the Mountain Clans in the Stark name. They can take Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's square, alongside the Mormonts themselves, and the Hornwoods, after taking the Motte. I can travel to Eastwatch-by-the-sea by sea, from this harbour, and inform King Jon."

"The Lannisters soon will surely request my allegiance in return for my son. And so I declare loyalty to the Lannisters, later send word of some false victory, or pretend to collaborate with the Boltons, and, with luck, receive back my son. Is that what you would have me do? Gamble with Wylis's life?"

"Have you a choice?"

Wyman's eyes narrowed, but there was a glint in them. "That was the right reply. You are correct, Kennet. I have no choice." He sighed. "I have now eight-and-thirty warships, both in the inner harbour and hidden up the White Kinfe. You can have your pick of them, to take you to Eastwatch. Would you do so?"

"I would wait for that journey, my Lord, until we would have some strength to show more than words, such as a promise of alliance from the Umbers, or the Manderlys, and likely the Karstarks too," Kennet counselled.

"A fine idea, but the journey to Eastwatch is long, and any time that could be cut from it would only be to our advantage. Were you to wait, perhaps, at some midway point on the coast which a raven could be sent to, much time would be spared."

Kennet considered. "I have not seen my father in a year or more, my Lord. I have been told," he said, glancing at Patrek, "that the likelihood is that he is at Widow's Watch or Karhold."

Lord Wyman nodded. "Both of those are useful middle points. As it will not cost time, attempt to find your father and make your location known to the Lord or Lady of the castle, stating my name if needed, so as they can give you any messages. You should be ready at any point to leave for Eastwatch."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Would you be prepared to leave tomorrow? I would require time to compose letters and think on logistics with both this document in my hands and also your seemingly keen brain well placed to help. Is that agreeable to you, Kennet?" the large Lord asked.

"Indeed it is, Lord Manderly-"

"However, my Lord, you need not trouble yourself with sending one of your own ships," Patrek spoke up for the first time. "My _Stone Maiden_ is prepared to take an old friend along."

Willhem jumped in, too; "No need to reduce your own income, Patrek; one of my ships would suffice, I'm sure."

"Stop trying to martyr yourselves. My ships lie idle; their crews need sea experience. One of them will do," Lord Wyman smiled thinly. "Though the offers are appreciated."

"I thank you for your assistance, my Lord," Kennet said. "I should inform you, however, that once I reach either Widow's Watch or Karhold, whichever my father is in, I should like to continue on my way in the _Shadowcat_, our family's ship."

"A reasonable wish, to be sure," Lord Wyman stated. "And one that will weaken White Harbour's seaward defences for a smaller duration, but perhaps a less safe one for yourself, as your document should be the priority. Is this _Shadowcat_ a warship?"

Kennet shook his head. "Perhaps you would have remarked on it, had you seen it in harbour, my Lord. She is a lightweight and speedy vessel, capable of outrunning most other ships on the seas. She is painted black, with vertical, grey stripes; certainly distinctive, but no warship."

"Why, then, would you travel on her rather than in greater, less-distinctive safety?" Wyman's eyes were perceiving again, narrowed.

"None will think anything of a trading ship that travels most of the North's east coast regularly. Many would think a lot if warships, and you would likely come under some suspicion as a result."

Wyman nodded. "Then I think perhaps you should take up your friend Patrek's offer. Best be as inconspicuous as possible, no? And I can pay back any potential losses on both your parts; such is the least I should do for the King."

Both Patrek and Kennet nodded. "My Lord," Patrek said, Kennet echoing the words too.

"Good," said Manderly. "Patrek Stonefrost, I suggest you go forth and prepare your ship for sail tomorrow. You may go." Patrek bowed slightly, nodded silently to both Kennet and Willhem, and quietly left the room.

"Willhem," Lord Manderly continued, "your assistance in arranging this meeting is appreciated. You may go."

"Thank you, Wyman," Willhem Mallann said, bowing to the Lord and nodding to Kennet. "It was my pleasure."

"Oh, and Willhem?" said Lord Wyman. "I trust you shall not speak of this conversation elsewhere?"

"I shall not, my Lord; I swear it, by the old gods and the new." Wyman nodded, and Willhem left.

"Kennet," said Wyman, "sit." He gestured to the chair across from him.

Kennet, taken aback somewhat, hesitated before he strode over to the seat and sat slowly, meeting Wyman's eyes.

The Lord's eyes were honest, now; grief was present, but so was a little bit of hope. "I would like to thank you, Kennet, on behalf of the whole North. Your tidings have brought hope at my moment, however brief, of despair."

"Thank you for your kind words, my Lord," was the only response Kennet could come up with.

"I would hope, Kennet, that your loyalty to the King is your main motivation in bringing this document to me; however, you need not doubt that you should be adequately rewarded, should you so wish."

"My loyalty is to the North more so than to anything else, my Lord besides perhaps my father. That would be why I did not leave Robb Stark's cause after the execution of Lord Karstark, as many other men from Karhold did. Such abandonment did not favour the cause of independence, merely that of petty revenge."

"That is good to hear," the Lord of White Harbour said. "Tell me, you wouldn't happen to know anything about Jon Stark, would you, besides the contents of this document?" Manderly held the document in question, the will, out to Kennet.

Kennet took it. "Very little... besides that, as I recall, when I visited Wintertown whilst exploring the North, I heard a jest that the 'bastard of Winterfell looked more Stark than the trueborn heir.' Little more was said than that." Kennet shrugged.

He had been eighteen then, just two years past, and had with his father's backing decided to travel across the Northern subcontinent. He had visited most of the regions barring Bear Island, and even had visited the Shadow Tower at the Wall.

It was then that he'd developed his love of riding and of camping; his father still had the tent, somewhere, and the horse he'd used, a three-year-old black garron mare named Tara, still belonged to their family, the only horse kept purely for leisure and travel rather than the transporting of goods over land.

"Have you travelled much, Kennet?"

"All of the North, but for Bear Island."

"Have you seen the Dreadfort? In all it's feared strength?"

"Aye."

"Unless the Boltons take Winterfell before loyal Northmen can garrison it, it will be out biggest obstacle. Would you have any suggestions on the process of taking it?"

Kennet frowned almost sheepishly. "I'm no battle strategist. I can fight well enough, I can speak, I can write, but I couldn't tell you how to flank an army or siege a fortress, merely why it should be done or when." He shrugged. "I don't think I'm the man to solve that particular problem, my Lord."

Manderly nodded. "No matter. We have others skilled in those areas in the North."

"Indeed."

"Now, I would not have my Maester copy these documents and write my letters to the Northern Lords; he is a Lannister, through and through, chain or no. You have said you can write, Kennet; I would keep you here for today, that you and I could go over the details, and dictate and write these letters; would that be acceptable?"

Kennet nodded sharply. "Certainly, my Lord."

Wyman smiled. "Good. For now, though, to the midday meal. I would have you sit at the high table, amongst my household, if you would like."

"My Lord, it would be an honour," Kennet said, but Lord Manderly had seen his surprise and laughed.

"It certainly won't be the last time you sup with lords and ladies, if this plan of ours comes off," he pointed out jovially.

"I would expect not, Lord Manderly," Kennet said wryly, "but it would be the first in any case."


	5. The Manderlys of White Harbour

**Chapter 5 is here! It took less time than the previous, fortunately, and I do quite like it, so I hope you enjoy!**

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In the Merman's Court, Kennet was sat next to Ser Marlon Manderly, a tall man with grey eyes and beard who commanded the garrison at White Harbour, and his son, Ser Mandon, a young man, shorter than his father and a few years older than Kennet, who was following in his father's footsteps serving in the garrison.

The food was rich, and tasted good besides; Kennet could see now, in part, why Lord Wyman was so large; it seemed reasonable that if you ate a lot, more would be left behind as it passed through you.

He ignored Maester Theomore, who was to the other side of Ser Marlon, throughout the meal, as the Maester ignored him. Lord Wyman had introduced Kennet as "a man who, surely through the will of the gods, by great good fortune escaped the Twins and made it here, to safety," and that was enough to sate the curiosity of most of the household.

It didn't sate Ser Mandon's curiosity on him, however, which was why it was next to him that Kennet sat.

He and Kennet conversed on the subjects of wars and weapons, of how the latter could be used in the former, and, briefly, on the subject of women.

That branch of the conversation had swiftly halted when Kennet pointed out the fact that both Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly had been listening in on them from across the table.

Wynafryd had a long, Northern braid, while Wylla's hair was dyed an odd bright green colour. Wynafryd, the elder, was tall and dignified, while Wylla was more spirited and passionate, Kennet observed.

The food was nothing short of delicious, better than any cuisine Kennet had eaten since riding South. Salty seafood, for the most part, including fish and seaweed, though there were also some pork and vegetable dishes too.

Kennet held himself back from eating too much, fearful of being rude, but tried as many dishes as he could, and found he particularly liked the pork, which was succulent and juicy.

The meal ended soon enough, Ser Mandon declaring that he was off to the yard to train and asking Kennet to join him, which Kennet had to refuse, stating that he had some small business to attend to, and that once it was done he would attempt to join Mandon, and try his hand. It was a long time since his sword was drawn last, while fighting for the Crag as he recalled.

By the time he had turned back to the table, Lord Wyman was leaving, and so Kennet bid farewell to

Ser Marlon and Ser Mandon, nodded respectfully to Wynafryd as she met his eyes, and left the hall.

A servant met him and guided him to Lord Manderly's solar, where the Lord himself awaited.

"My Lord," Kennet said upon entering.

"Kennet," replied Manderly. "I believe the first order of business here is to review again the terms of Robb Stark's will. A full copy of the terms should be created, in the case of the loss of the original, but I trust few in this castle or even city with the information. Thus, three of the loyal members of my household have been summoned here, two to copy out additional parchments and one to work with us on summarising our ravens to the appropriate Northern Lords and Ladies, as well as writing them out. They should be here shortly."

Kennet nodded in response.

Less than a minute later, during which time Kennet sat and unfurled the Royal Decree which lay on the table, there was a knock on the door, and a voice was heard; "Ser Marlon Manderly, Ser Mandon Manderly, and the Lady Wynafryd Manderly request entrance, milord."

"Open the door," called Lord Wyman.

Lady Wynafryd, Lord Manderly's eldest granddaughter and Ser Wylis's firstborn, led the two knights into the room and greeted both Lord Wyman and Kennet politely, but in an inquisitive manner.

Ser Marlon narrowed his eyes at Kennet, bowed to Lord Wyman, and sat down next to the Lord of White Harbour.

Ser Mandon, who Kennet had sat next to in the Merman's Court, greeted his Lord and looked curiously at Kennet, before sitting next to him again, while Wynafryd placed herself neatly in a nearby chair.

"Marlon, Mandon, and Wynafryd, you are here because, as you all know, I trust you with important information. Kennet is not simply a soldier who escaped the twins."

The focus in the room turned to Kennet, who breathed deeply and met their eyes. Marlon looked suspicious, while Wynafryd was curious, and Mandon similarly inquisitive.

"He also brought with him the document you see before you now," Lord Manderly continued. "Kennet, if you would perchance read it aloud?"

Kennet reached for the parchment he knew so well, lifting it before him. He lowered it before he began reading, and explained, "I found this in the tent of Robb Stark, which I was guarding at the time of the Freys' betrayal."

He cleared his throat and began.

"In the name of Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North and King at the Trident, trueborn son of Eddard Stark, and with the full recognition and support of the Lords and houses whose seals are affixed, the man known as Jon Snow, natural-born son of Eddard Stark, is hereby legitimised and named the heir of the King in the North and the King of the Trident."

Mandon's eyes lit up, Wynafryd gasped lightly, and Marlon leant forwards. Kennet continued.

"Should Robb Stark, the King in the North and the King at the Trident, fall, in battle or sickness, in the absence of any male son by Queen Jeyne Westerling, Jon Stark, formerly Jon Snow, will be recognised and acknowledged by the Lords stated as their King."

Wynafryd leant back to listen, hope and a dawning apprehension both on her face.

"Any vows he has sworn to the contrary, whether to the Night's Watch or any other party, are hereby revoked by this Royal Decree."

Ser Marlon's eyes narrowed, and he sighed lightly. Ser Mandon's gaze was still intense.

"The mentioned party, Jon Stark, is hereby summoned to the side of the King in the North and the King at the Trident, Robb Stark."

Some degree of sadness entered the countenances of the Manderlys there, understandably so.

"All parties sworn to the King in the North and the King of the Trident are to see that this decree is enforced, by any and all means necessary, preferably supplying the Night's Watch with men and food supplies as compensation for the summoning of Jon Stark from their most esteemed and recognised ranks."

Ser Marlon gritted his teeth at that. "We can ill afford to lose men, nor supplies."

"We can ill afford to lose a King, father," Ser Mandon countered. "Not another. There are already far too few Starks and too many Boltons in the North. For shame that we worry about supplies in this situation!"

"Then losing the men is the problem," countered Ser Marlon.

"You have heard of the state of things at the Wall recently. If Wildlings overrun the Wall and Boltons Winterfell, would you send men then?"

"I do not mean to complain of the necessity of such an action," Ser Marlon stated. "I simply disapprove of the weakening of our defences, however temporary."

"Father-"

"Sers," said Wynafryd, "this argument is pointless. On the Wall, Jon Stark is one man and a hundred would be of more use. Off the Wall, Jon Stark is a King, and a King is worth a thousand men. Some small garrison and supplies would be a small price to pay for independence."

"The Lady speaks it true," said Kennet. "We have larger issues to consider."

"Correct," Lord Manderly put in. "I shall need you all to cooperate in total secrecy if we are to both successfully restore the North a King and appear to work well enough for the Lannisters that we can bargain for the safe return of Ser Wylis. I trust you all should operate in such secrecy entirely at my discretion. Do you all agree?"

A nod from Ser Marlon, a word of affirmation from Ser Mandon, and a "Naturally" from Wynafryd were his responses, before Kennet realised they were looking to him next.

"Of course, my Lord," Kennet stated hurriedly. "Have I not said so previously?"

"Indeed you have." Manderly sighed. "To business, then. I should like to have two more copies of this document made, word for word, in case of incident with the original. Ser Marlon, Ser Mandon, there are parchments and ink on the desks to the side, I do believe." It was no request.

Both knights left, but neither took the parchment. Lord Wyman slid a small parchment and ink across to Kennet. "Could you summarise it for us, briefly, before those two remember that they have to copy from the document themselves?"

"I know it well enough myself already, my Lord," confessed Kennet, "I had little and less to do on the road, besides read it and think about it, that is."

"Good. Marlon!" called Lord Wyman, rolling and holding up the document as he did so. "You shall need this."

Ser Marlon fetched it, looking sheepish. Behind him, Ser Mandon almost choked holding in a laugh.

Kennet wrote.

_Robb Stark legitimises his bastard half-brother, Jon Snow, now Jon Stark._

_Jon Stark is now the heir of Robb Stark, if Robb Stark's wife has no son by him._

_Any vows made by Jon Stark contrary to this declaration are revoked._

_Jon Stark is summoned to Robb Stark's side._

_All bannersmen to Robb Stark are to ensure that this declaration is enforced, and requested to compensate the Night's Watch accordingly._

"That will do," stated Lord Wyman.

"Grandfather," Wynafryd said, "might I ask why my presence is required here?"

"Indeed you might, Wynafryd," Lord Manderly said.

Wynafryd smiled slightly. "Why would my presence be required here?"

"Your diplomatic ability should be useful, in the next task of ours," Lord

Manderly said. "Ravens must be sent. To Bear Island and to Last Hearth."

"Maester Theomore must be bypassed, then," commented Wynafryd.

"Indeed," Lord Wyman stated, "And I am slowly working on that problem. But that is for later."

"These messages... Are they notices of action that should be taken, or of the cause of Jon Stark?"

"Both," Lord Manderly said assuredly. "Letters are to go to the Mormonts and the Umbers. Riders should also be sent to search out loyal men in the Rills, the Stony Shore, and the Hornwood lands. However, these are not to know of the King, but to simply gather and attempt to sweep the Ironborn from that area of coast, from the top of the Neck to the southernmost points of the Wolfswood. If they can take ships whole, they must."

"And what of Deepwood Motte, and the ravens to the Mormonts and Umbers?"

"The letter to the Umbers," Manderly explained, "needs must be particularly delicate and thought out. We must explain to them that their revenge cannot be instant, and nor can the rescue of the Greatjon, still captive at the Twins. We should tell them that reinforcing the Wall with men is likely to be a necessity, in order to better unify the North, and we should tell them that they may be needed in some capacity to stabilise the Karstarks."

"The Karstarks? How so?" Kennet inquired.

"The Karstark line should continue with Alys, the daughter of the late Lord Karstark, after the capture of his son Harrion. However, Arnolf, her uncle and Castellan, as well as his sons, are in control. Arnolf has always been possessive, and I would fear for their honest allegiance."

"But how exactly would the Umbers help that situation?" Wynafryd inquired. "Contacting Alys on the situation, I would presume, and perhaps even removing her from Karhold, in the interest of her safety?"

"Precisely that. I would presume that she would be able to make a more informed decision than we ever could, and a message from the nearest castle barring the Dreadfort is the best we can provide her with currently."

"And the Mormonts?" Wynafryd asked.

"That particular message, and his idea regarding it, would be why Kennet is here," Wyman stated.

Taking the hint, Kennet spoke. "The mountain clans never marched South with the Young Wolf, and the Mormonts are the closest friendly group to the Wolfswood that we can message by raven. They must rally the mountain clans, march south, and take Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn, leaving only Moat Cailin in Ironborn hands, if the troops the messengers gather can expel them from Torrhen's Square and the southwest shoreline."

Lord Manderly nodded, as did Wynafryd. "So," Wyman said, "we shall work on the letter to the Mormonts first, as it is the most directly urgent. Wynafryd," he said, turning to his granddaughter as he placed a pot of ink next to a roll of parchment, "how would you suggest we begin the main passage?"

All three of them talked as best they could, which, in Kennet's case, went surprisingly well, on the correct way of phrasing a revelation such as theirs, as the sound of quills scratching behind them continued haltingly as the knights listened in too.


	6. Farewells and Departures

**Here we are again! Large chapter, this one; the largest in the story so far... And also, that's not all that's new; I'll be trying to put a cover image up, too; it should be up within two hours or so, apparently; it's a little sketch I did, which is related to the story, so... Yeah, please feel free to tell me what you think, of the drawing and the story!**

**Oh, and an immense thank you to all those who've favourited, followed, or reviewed; I appreciate it immensely! Shout out to jelpy1 in particular, for a load of great reviews!**

* * *

Later that same day, once the letters had been completed to the best of the abilities of the three who'd wrote them and spoke on their contents, the group had dispersed more.

Lady Wynafryd had left to find her sister, Ser Marlon had left to arrange for the riders to be sent through Hornwood lands, the Rills, the Barrowlands, and the Stony Shore, and Lord Wyman was arranging a method of sending the ravens without the knowledge of Maester Theomore.

Kennet and Ser Mandon, however, had found their way to the courtyard.

Mandon told Kennet where the armoury was, and sent him off to find something that would fit, but was surprised by the result.

Kennet had entered the room an searched through a great deal of armour, mainly plate armour, all too heavy and bulky and cumbersome. Near the back, however, was a hauberk of chain, similar to those Kennet had worn previously. He also took a plain helmet that would not obscure his vision, and a leather undercoat to stop the hauberk rubbing his skin painfully.

He exited the building to meet Ser Mandon, as expected, in full plate armour, head to toe.

"Chain?!" Mandon cried jokingly. "That armoury houses some fine plate, of many sizes, and you choose chain mail?"

"Hauberks have saved my life," Kennet grinned. "Plate slows a man too much to allow the showing of skill."

"It's your funeral," Mandon smirked, leading Kennet to find tourney swords they could spar with.

Mandon headed immediately for a large blunted longsword, while Kennet searched, finding one sword of middling length - as long as his arm - and taking a small shortsword in his left hand.

They headed calmly to the centre of the courtyard, Ser Mandon questioning Kennet over his equipment choices again.

"Didn't you mention that you soldiers were issued spears, shields, and longswords each?" When Kennet nodded, Mandon continued, "And how does that work with a middling sword and a shortsword, might I ask?"

"In his spare time, when I was younger, my father would train me in the use of weapons such as these. I managed in the army to convert those skills to use of a longsword well enough, but I want to see if I'm still up to standard."

"Then prepare yourself," Ser Mandon stated, as they reached a wide, empty space.

Ser Mandon slid his visor down, and raised his longsword to roughly Kennet's eye level. In reply, Kennet brought his shortsword in front of himself diagonally, swinging his right shoulder back and levelling the sword in that hand at his opponent.

Ser Mandon made the first move.

The knight stepped forwards, two-handed slash heading for Kennet's leading left shoulder. Kennet leant backwards, twisted to avoid the blade, and used the twist to step and lunge with the larger sword. Mandon trotted back sharply, deflecting the blow as he did so.

A brief pause followed the opening flurry, as Kennet did not press, instead withdrawing and circling the White Harbour knight slowly.

Ser Mandon was more cautious now. For a while he simply edged closer to Kennet, who remained calm. Then, the taller man struck.

It was a forceful, fast, and hacking blow, which Kennet dodged, before, in the second Mandon took to regain balance, he attacked.

Kennet made two rapid steps forwards, followed by a hack to the tip of Mandon's blade with the shortsword and a diagonal slash across which connected nearer to the hilt, disarming the knight. Kennet continued the slash around, ducking, and managing to avoid the punch Ser Mandon had thrown his way. He extended the shortsword outwards as he completed the turn, hitting the plate at the side of Mandon's ribs, as he levelled the other sword at his throat, finding the small gap where the neck was exposed.

"Victory," Kennet declared.

"Rematch," Mandon demanded.

"Naturally," Kennet agreed.

This time, Ser Mandon was more careful. He did not attack first, instead glancing over Kennet's defences as the two circled one another. When Kennet stepped in, sword slicing and bringing the shortsword up for a slash as well, Mandon timed his deflection of the sword and hack at the shortsword to perfection, disarming Kennet of the smaller and forcing him to roll to his right, finding his footing and clutching his sword defensively.

The match was far from over. Mandon advanced with confidence, while Kennet backed away and tracked to the right, playing to his stronger side and to Mandon's. They progressed like that for a while, almost making a full circle, before Mandon realised that Kennet was next to the shortsword again and charged in response, his blade raised for a mighty swing.

Kennet stepped back for a second before pouncing forwards, catching Marlon by surprise. The large knight couldn't readjust his swing enough, but Kennet's blade didn't find a gap in the plate, simply glancing off, and Mandon's arms smashed him to the side as the sword was brought around.

This time, Kennet couldn't hold on to his sword, and Ser Mandon had the long blade at his neck in an instant.

"Rematch?" Kennet suggested.

"Certainly," grinned Mandon.

A voice erupted from the side of the courtyard, cheering for Mandon and congratulating him for winning. Upon turning, Kennet saw that Wylla Manderly had been cheering, but now Wynafryd was gently hushing her sister, clapping gently simultaneously.

"I wonder," Kennet said loudly to Mandon, "what Wylla would say if she'd seen you lose the first match? And what she'll say when she sees you lose the third?"

Mandon grinned, leaned in, and whispered, "I'm not sure Wylla's the one whose opinion you're worried about!"

Kennet snorted quietly at that, shaking his head silently as he collected the swords. He did glance around self-consciously, however.

He returned to facing Ser Mandon, stance slightly more offensive this time; right foot and sword forwards with the shortsword down by his side, pointing forwards. He was only a few short paces away from Mandon, and when the knight began to raise his sword, Kennet took one of those paces rapidly.

The shortsword swung , upwards, outwards, and diagonally, driving the longsword upwards, outwards, and with it Mandon's defences. Kennet's right sword rested just underneath Ser Mandon's visor, and the knight dropped his sword dramatically.

Wynafryd applauded again, while Wylla's gasp was easily audible.

Mandon smirked slightly. "You fight like a cat," he commented.

"How so?" Kennet frowned.

"A claw in each paw, so to speak, and you wait for your chance - or create a chance - before pouncing."

Kennet considered it. "That would be a fair enough comparison to make, I suppose." He raised his blades again. "Best out of five?"

"Best of eleven, I say," Ser Mandon countered, and Kennet nodded.

It was fortunate for Ser Mandon that he had said best of eleven, for Kennet won the next two matches. In the first, he tripped Mandon with his longer sword as the knight swung horizontally towards him, and for the second, he'd slid behind a charging Mandon, closed in, grabbed his shoulder and put the shortsword to his throat.

However, Mandon won the next, with a slash that the chain and leather cushioned and deflected, but still launched Kennet to the floor.

Mandon won the next after that, hitting through a weak block with the shortsword and propelling Kennet around, as the knight continued spinning and had to stop the blow at the last second or risk breaking an arm of Kennet's. Kennet conceeded the match.

Mandon won the next after that, too, bruising Kennet's stomach in the process and taking the score level.

Mandon lost the next match, however, as Kennet ran a ring or two around the sweltering fighter, who was sweating in his armour, to hit the back of Mandon's helm with his larger sword's hilt.

It was five to four, but the next fight lasted longer.

Kennet, on the balls of his feet, began by circling again, switching directions fast whenever Mandon got close. The knight was tired, he noticed, the heavy plate detrimental to speed and stamina. Kennet backed away at varying speeds, but Mandon didn't take the bait.

They ended up to the side of the courtyard as Kennet allowed Ser Mandon some breathing space, but Mandon surprised him with a quick rush and powerful swing that Kennet wasn't prepared for, causing him to lose the longer sword.

Tossing the shortsword from palm to palm, Kennet backed away towards the centre of the yard. Mandon's longsword began to look particularly foreboding as Kennet drew his opponent into the open again.

A few rapid attacks put Mandon on the back foot, however, Kennet swinging and slashing from all angles, but the knight stayed all the blows, even if he returned few. With utmost concentration Kennet attempted to trick his opponent, feet nimble, turning and halting the turns, blocking his opponent's arm rather than the sword, staying up close and under Ser Mandon's guard.

He jumped a sweep of Mandon's foot, and got his sword in front of the sword's sweeping, close blow, but the momentum of the strike threw him to the side.

He came up, shimmied left, spun right while crouching to dodge the blow as it turned diagonal, and, rather than lunging, stepped forwards, and swept Mandon's legs from under him with a sharp kick. Mandon fell to his knees. Kennet's sword met his neck.

"I yield," Mandon panted, shaking his head and removing his helm. "By the Warrior, that was a good fight!"

"It was a good fight," Kennet agreed, holding his hand out to Mandon, pulling the other man up when he grasped it. "Do you now see the weakness of plate?"

"In single combat, perhaps," Ser Mandon stated. "In a pitched battle, I think you would have found it hard to manoeuvre around me so much, and plate would win out."

"Mayhaps it would," Kennet agreed, "but you still chose it for this match over chain."

It was at that point which Wynafryd reached the centre of the courtyard. "Well fought, the both of you; and well won, Kennet. Unfortunately, my sister does not deign to recognise the defeat of a Manderly. Perhaps she shall apologise during the evening meal, if you attend, though it might perchance appear suspicious were you to appear at more than one household meal."

"Indeed, Lady Wynafryd, I doubt I shall be attending. However, if she expresses to you a wish to apologise, she should know that it is accepted," Kennet said.

"If she does, I shall be sure to inform her," Wynafryd smiled, as Mandon patted Kennet on the back and headed off to remove his armour. "I should also like to wish you farewell, and good luck on your journey."

"Let us hope that good luck would not be needed, my Lady," Kennet said. "Though like as not, it will; this is no straightforward journey, nor task."

"My thoughts and my prayers will go with you in this task," Wynafryd stated. "As shall those of all who know of it and wish for the return of a King."

With that, Wynafryd smiled slightly, turned gently, and left the courtyard.

Kennet deposited the sword and the armour in the appropriate places before finding Ser Mandon again.

"How did that go?" Mandon asked. "Engaged yet?"

Kennet ignored the comment. "I should be leaving the castle soon. Which way is the gate?"

"I'll lead you there," Mandon said. "Where will you be headed after?"

"The _Stone Maiden_, a ship belonging to a friend of mine," Kennet replied. "It'll be taking me up the coast tomorrow."

Mandon's smile fell slightly. "Headed where?"

"Eastwatch-by-the-sea," Kennet said, glancing around. "The Wall."

"The King," Mandon said, quietly.

Kennet nodded, and Mandon led him to the gate in silence. It was a short walk, however, and when the gate was in sight, Kennet turned to Mandon.

"If you see Lord Wyman, inform him that I will leave with the tide tomorrow, and that if someone could bring the document I gave him to the _Stone Maiden_ before that time I would be extremely grateful," Kennet said.

Ser Mandon nodded. "I'll see to it that he knows. Best of luck, Kennet. I hope to duel you again someday."

"As I hope to bet you again, my friend," Kennet grinned. "Farewell, Mandon."

"Farewell, Kennet."

With that, they parted.

Kennet passed the inner harbour, highly walled as it was, wherein surely lay many of the Manderly warships, passed the markets, and fetched his horse, Tor, from the stables. Patrek Stonefrost welcomed him and Tor aboard with open arms.

Kennet told Patrek that they should leave at the first tide the next day, and Patrek, in fine spirits, explained that he had already received ample compensation from the Manderly coffers, and that they could trade anyway, making a profitable journey a useful one too. Kennet was given a small cabin, Tor a space and a supply of hay above decks, hay which the Stone Maiden's men had brought especially. Kennet's supplies were in the cabin already.

"May we have fine winds and calm seas," Kennet remarked, "or I fear for my four-legged companion's safety."

"If anything happens, you'll have to keep him calm," Patrek said grimly. "The crew'll be too busy ensuring we stay afloat."

Kennet spent some time petting and grooming Tor after that remark, ensuring the garron was happy, before he himself retreated belowdecks to rest.

* * *

High tide would rise by midday, but Kennet woke early, to the sound of some kind of commotion on deck. He yawned, stretched, stood, and was beginning to dress as quickly as he could when Patrek burst into the room.

"Someone to see you," he announced.

"Can they wait until I put a shirt on?" Kennet queried, buttoning his trousers.

"Best not take the risk," Patrek said urgently, but Kennet caught a glint in his eye as he turned and headed for the exit. Nonetheless, Kennet followed, grabbing a shirt as he did so.

He pulled it on as he reached the upper deck, glancing around as he did so. It was not long before he saw the cause of the disruption.

He strode to the side of the ship -port, fittingly - that was facing the dock.

"Lady Wynafryd," he greeted quietly, looking up. She wore a hooded cloak, but he could see her face and recognised her form. The sailors had backed off somewhat.

"Kennet," she said, holding out a hand, which he kissed. She blushed. "I had meant for you to help me onto the ship, but that will do, I suppose." To his mortification, she stepped down herself. The outer harbour was level with the ship at that point, and she stepped easily enough onto a crate before he did manage to help her to the deck from there.

"Did we not say farewell yesterday?" Kennet queried.

"That was after you forgot this," Wynafryd stated, handing Kennet the Royal Decree, which he tucked under an arm. "And before I made you this."

With those words, she drew from a pocket a strip of fabric, which she kept in her hands.

"I remembered what Mandon had said, about you fighting like a cat. And when I returned to my chambers, and picked up a book of Northern history, I recalled something from it, some banner of a house from long ago. I'm not sure it still exists and I forgot it's name, but the banner stood out."

She unfurled the fabric, with the words, "So why not the most Northern cat of all?"

It was a Shadowcat, black with stripes of white, in a grey field. It had eyes of a sharp red and an open, snarling mouth with sharp, pure-white teeth.

Kennet took it from her gently, marvelling at it. "A token?"

"The favour of White Harbour and myself goes with you," she said.

"I shall treasure it, my Lady," Kennet said.

"I hope that you shall," Wynafryd said. "There is one more thing the Lord of White Harbour would have you bring."

"What might that be?" Kennet tilted his head.

Wynafryd smiled. "Ser Mandon."

Kennet glanced up, to see the knight, with a sack that likely contained armour over his shoulder and a longsword at his hip.

Mandon jumped to the deck. The thud he made was loud, and, before he could say a word, Patrek Stonefrost was hurrying over, to inquire as to what was going on.

Fortunately, Wynafryd managed to smooth Patrek's temper over quickly, before departing, saying "Good winds," to Patrek, "Farewell," to Ser Mandon, and "The best of luck," to Kennet.

Kennet could only manage "You have my thanks, my Lady," before she left, assisted up to the harbour's edge again by himself and Ser Mandon.

She left with a smile and a wave.

Ser Mandon, it was decided, would share Kennet's cabin, and before long both Patrek and Mandon were pestering Kennet mercilessly over whether or not he liked her, to which he refused to comment, until Patrek had to organise the sailors before they left their mooring. Then it was just Mandon.

Kennet could only evade him when the ship started moving by insisting they go topside and watch the process.

Unfortunately, Mandon started again as soon as they got into clear water, but Kennet simply tuned him out, staring across the sea and thinking on the future.

He'd always admired the sea, in it's uncontrollable nature, it's changes of mood, and now he could only hope that it remained calm for as long as it took them to reach Widow's Watch.

* * *

It should have been a voyage of a day and a half, Patrek had told him at the very beginning, if all went well. Despite the clear sky and calm seas, the wind was against them for the first day, and the_ Stone Maiden_, a relatively slow, fat merchant cog, had to tack from side to side to catch enough wind to maintain forward motion.

Over the next night, however, the wind cleared up to a more favourable one. The _Stone Maiden_ wasn't flying, per se, nor heading directly with the wind, but it was satisfactorily fast for Kennet to be confident that they would reach Widow's Watch sometime after the next day, and Patrek said the same.

However, there was a temporary rough spot the next day, too, a quick shower with seas that weren't particularly high, but were still enough to worry Tor. Kennet spent a few hours hooded and wet, comforting the panicked horse.

Little did Kennet know that Ser Mandon, as it turned out, was similarly unsettled by the prospect of a storm at sea, to the point of staying in the cabin and not coming out like everyone else to either man the ropes or comfort a worried animal.

Once the rain cleared up, the rest of that day passed favourably, with good winds, as did the night, and, early the next day, Kennet exited his cabin, hair messy from sleep and Lady Wynafryd's token on his left arm, to see the tall coastal tower with the small port, facing towards the boat, that was Widow's Watch.


	7. Arrival at Widow's Watch

**New Chapter! Seeing as it's the holidays, I'll hopefully be able to find a bit more time to write in the near future, and the next chapter should be out in less than a week.**

**There should be a few revelations in the next chapter, but there are clues here, sort of... A few things are coming together... Any guesses as to what?**

**And, naturally, thank you all for the support you've shown; my second most favourited story and almost my most followed; It's also certainly in the most communities! So yeah, thanks for all the support!**

* * *

As the _Stone Maiden_ rounded the harbour's entrance, Kennet breathed a sigh of relief. The ship would not have to make the longer journey - and longer detour - to Karhold, where, Lord Manderly believed, Arnolf Karstark had taken control.

The _Shadowcat_ was at anchor in the harbour.

Ser Mandon, who was beside him, commented, "Now there's an odd-looking ship. Wonder what that's there for?"

"At a guess?" Kennet grinned. "Shipping. She isn't the biggest, admittedly, but you'll see so many merchant ships with great heavy holds and large crews that take far longer than they should to make journeys, and have to labour through any hard weather at a snail's pace. This would skip across the waves with a fair wind, and weather a storm far better than most merchant cogs. And look at the deck; crowded with shipping and goods. She's a trader for sure. As for the odd designs, they're probably mainly for the purpose of standing out. The best tradesmen are distinctive."

"Oi! Mandon!" Patrek called from the deck. By then, they'd docked, and come to a standstill. "Kennet hasn't told you that's his dad's ship over there, has he? You know, the black one, with the grey stripes?"

"Prick," Kennet called back to Patrek. "He thought I was intelligent for a second there!"

Patrek laughed it off, returning to the unloading of goods, as Ser Mandon punched Kennet lightly.

It may not have been particularly light itself, but Kennet knew how forceful the knight could be.

Kennet ensured Tor had straw enough for some time, before he and Mandon left the _Stone Maiden_, heading for the _Shadowcat_. It was a short journey, as the harbour of Widow's Watch was narrow, and in any case they had docked quite near to the _Shadowcat_.

The harbour front was covered with crates, some from fishing vessels, some from the _Shadowcat_, and some few from another merchant ship, the large and unwieldy _Flintbourne_.

"See what I meant?" Kennet remarked, gesturing to it, "Patrek's ship is of stone, this one flint, but this," he said, pointing to the _Shadowcat_ as they reached it, "She's light as a shadow, nimble like a cat, and striped like the both."

"Not for fighting, unlike the beast that shares it's name," Patrek stated.

"No animal is built for fighting, but for hunting, surviving. Shadowcats can survive like no other."

Stepping around a crate of furs, they reached the plank that led to the Shadowcat's deck. Kennet paused before the ascent.

"It's over a year since I saw her last," he sighed. "She hasn't changed."

"Good for you, you emotional little sod. Get a move on," Ser Mandon grinned, to which Kennet rolled his eyes, before leading them up the plank, where a man of about forty confronted the pair hastily from where he'd been coiling a rope.

"Young men, what would be your purpose in boarding the Shadowcat?" He asked.

Kennet laughed. "Phillep, I didn't think your memory would deteriorate so much in just a year!"

Phillep squinted, before exclaiming, "Kennet! Well met!" He extended a hand, which Kennet shook. "And, my boy, you know it is not my memory which is faulty. My eyes have no affinity for the nearer things. It is a fortune that I knew this vessel so well before my eyes grew faulty, or most any owner would cast me out!"

"I would not think so little of my father's kindness, you need worry not, my friend. Phillep, I would have you meet my companion, Ser Mandon."

The two shook. "A pleasure to meet you," Mandon stated.

"Likewise,"replied Phillep. The old man narrowed his eyes. "Your name has the sound of a Manderly, your voice the accent of White Harbour."

"My apologies, Phillep. This is Ser Mandon Manderly, son of Ser Marlon," Kennet stated apologetically.

"No need to apologise," Phillep said. "In any case you aren't the only one walking about with relatives of Lords, or Ladies."

Kennet frowned. "How so?"

"You're here to meet your father, are you not?" When Kennet confirmed that that was true, Phillep continued, "You'll find him with the Flints, up that tower of theirs."

Kennet turned, staring up at the fort that was Widow's Watch, spiralling from the strong, weathered rock that the short road from the harbour led to. It was an impressive sight, dark stone all, encircled at the base by thick, stout walls. Behind the defensive walls, taller rose the edges of the building itself, in a perfect circle, the ceiling curving upwards to form the base of the tower itself, which rose taller still, looking over the sea.

"What business has he there?" Kennet inquired.

"I know not," stated Phillep, "but I would wager good coin that him knowing them is why we do such good business whenever the 'Cat comes to Widow's Watch."

"I don't doubt," Kennet agreed. "I should meet him, Phillep; and do be prepared to keep the Shadowcat here for some time more." He sighed. "It may be of great importance."

"Then I'll keep my trap shut," came the reply, and Phillep went about his work again, rope still around his shoulder as he coiled it with a practised ease.

Kennet patted the rail of the ship, before leading the way back to the dock.

"He's a good man, Phillep," Kennet explained. "He's been working the seas all his life, and the last twenty to twenty five years have been for my father, on that ship. My father is owner and captain, but Phillep is his lieutenant. They do the sailing, while my father does the trading, and the midshipman, Hallon, steers the vessel and commands if they aren't there. I've known them all my life, and trust them a lot."

"Why not tell him my identity, then?" questioned Ser Mandon.

"There are likely some deckhands and seamen around that I don't know so well, doing temporary work. Either he wouldn't know it or wouldn't mention it , if I tried to keep your identity a secret. It's safer."

Mandon grunted in agreement. They had exited the harbour, heading for the oaken gate to Widow's Watch, which they soon reached. It was twice Kennet's height, as was the wall, and hewn smoothly, following the slight curve of the wall. It reached upwards in a flowing manner, mimicking that of the tower it guarded; wide and square up to just above Ser Mandon's height, then curving inwards and upwards.

Kennet raised a fist and knocked on the door.

"Who calls?" A voice came from the battlements above. "What's your business at Widow's Watch?"

"My name is Kennet, and my companion is Ser Mandon. We are here to see my father, Tristan."

"And how are we t' know you're lookin' for the same one?"

"Have you met him? Seen him?" Kennet inquired.

"A man o' that name."

"He's a merchant, around forty-five years old. Short."

"Could be any o' twenty merchants I've seen."

"Skinny."

"Any o' ten."

"Named Tristan. Dark hair."

"That's the man." There was a muffled shouting, before the gates opened. They opened outwards, which Kennet hadn't expected, and he and Ser Mandon stepped back.

"Why so quiet?" Kennet inquired of Mandon, pausing outside.

The knight hesitated. "I've never been in a fort that isn't also a city. I get the feeling I'm entering someone else's jurisdiction."

"So you've never left White Harbour?"

Mandon shook his head. "You're the expert here."

The gates fully open, Kennet led the way forwards. The tower was silhouetted by the doors, making for an impressive image, and a mailed man was descending from the gatehouse to meet them inside.

"Greetings. I'm Castor, gatemaster here at Widow's Watch. You're wanting to see your father?" He asked Kennet, who nodded. Castor turned to Mandon. "And you, Ser?"

"I'm accompanying him," Mandon stated calmly.

Castor cast a glance hastily between the two of them, and led on. "Kennat, was it, and Ser Mandon?"

"Kennet, please," came the response, which met a grumbled apology.

Castor led them through the deceptively large courtyard. The ring of steel on steel rang out from multiple directions, some people sparring and training, while a smith and an apprentice worked on a forge to the left. It was a place of preparation; a grim determination was on the faces of many.

Kennet had travelled to the Twins in the rearguard, commanded by Robin Flint of Widow's Watch. He recalled Lord Manderly mentioning that only the Greatjon was known to have survived the Red Wedding, and he was held captive in the Twins.

The men of Widow's Watch mourned an heir, even as some soldiers trained men that seemed to be smallfolk in the art of weaponry; grief and revenge drove them.

In fact, Kennet now recalled, Robin Flint had been the Lord of Widow's Watch, but now Lady Lynessa Flint, his mother, was in charge. Kennet knew not if she had other children. Nonetheless, tact would be required if they met her, as was likely in a place like Widow's Watch, which was no immense castle.

And if his father was indeed dining with "Lords and Ladies," as Phillep said, chances of a meeting were excellent.

Kennet would need to stay as relaxed and sensible as he could, so as to avoid putting himself in an unfortunate position.

Castor opened the inner door.

Within, there was a passage, which was narrow compared to those at White Harbour but wide when you considered the width of corridors in houses and inns. The passageway went left to right, likely circling the building, and there was a door directly forwards, with more visible further to the sides.

The door was pushed open, and it led to a hall or court. A table at the far end was wide, with space free in between the areas. Besides a few servants cleaning up a meal, it was empty. They went through the space, around the table, and up the staircase that was visible behind. Several other entrances led to the bottom of that stairwell, which presumably led up to the tower and the residencies of the Flints.

First, however, they reached the second level of the lower, wider section of Widow's Watch. Kennet looked through a few of the open entrances, spotting areas that were near-certainly servants' quarters, or soldiers'; including beds, stools, and somewhat little else, hardly fit for a lord but certainly better than cells.

They headed upwards. From where the slits for arrow-fire were, Kennet could tell that the walls were about a metre thick, and strong. A catapult would pose a large risk, certainly, but the tower would at the very least have a strong chance to stand.

The tower was wider than just the staircase; they passed several rooms on the way up, though none of the heavy doors were open. Castor did not stop.

Soon, they were almost at the top, where the staircase beyond that floor opened into air. A knight or soldier stood guard, sword at his side, not the first to be seen around the fortress. His hand went to the hilt upon seeing them.

_That's not enough to see off a trained fighter with as little as a knife. The time it would take him to draw is enough to skewer his eye, if you're fast enough. He should have a knife in his other hand - his fighting hand, judging by the sling of the scabbard - but it's open, at his side. A poor show._

"Who wishes entry?" the guard questioned. Castor beckoned them to speak.

"Kennet, a Northman and soldier wishing to speak with his father, Tristan," Kennet declared loudly.

Sounds of movement behind the door had ceased before Ser Mandon spoke; "Ser Mandon Manderly of White Harbour, accompanying Kennet, to speak with the Lady of Widow's Watch."

"Allow them entry," came an authoritative female voice.

"Yes, Milady." The guard opened the door to a spacious room decorated in blue and white. Kennet entered, followed by Mandon, casting his eyes quickly over the room.

It was roughly circular, taking up the whole floor bar the section for the narrow staircase. It was bedchamber and solar combined, due to the restrictive size of the room. A four-poster bed with blue covers and drapes and white cushions was to the left, while an area similar to Lord Manderly's solar was on the right.

Two people were at the desk; one, a woman, sitting, looking up at the doorway; one, a man, standing, slowly forming a grin, then stepping forwards rapidly. Kennet replicated the motion, embracing his father warmly.

Tristan had changed little in the past year, Kennet thought, though he himself felt far older. Not too old for comfort at a happy reunion during war, however!

Tristan released his son, turning to Mandon and extending a hand to shake, which the knight took.

"I am Tristan, Kennet's father," he said.

"Father, this is Ser Mandon Manderly, a companion and friend of mine."

"Well met, Tristan," Mandon said rather formally, to which the merchant nodded, turning to Kennet again and staring him in the eyes. They were almost of a height, but Kennet was slightly taller now.

"You've grown," Tristan stated after a moment. He looked Kennet up and down, before clasping him by the arm. "I'm glad you're back."

"I'm glad to see you again," came Kennet's reply, but Tristan was distracted. He had caught sight of Wynafryd's token, the shadowcat black and white on grey.

Tristan twisted the fabric to get a better view, and Kennet heard a sharp intake of breath.

His father met his eyes. "Where did you get that?"

Kennet glanced at it almost sheepishly. "It is a part of a much longer tale, and would take a lot of time to recount."

"Save your questioning, Tristan," came a gentle yet commanding voice. "There are more important stories for you to tell, likely even longer, that must be said first." Tristan nodded.

The woman who had been sitting down was standing, hand resting comfortably on Tristan's shoulder. She was tall, well-dressed all in blue, and likely of an age with Tristan at forty-five. Her hair was dark black, though some grey was showing. Kennet was certain that, when she was younger, she was a true beauty, for it was not all lost by any means.

"I am Lady Lynessa Flint," she confirmed. "Perhaps we should sit down for these exchanges of stories." She looked to Mandon first, but it was to Kennet that she spoke, sadness clear in her eyes. "I hope we all take time to truly listen and try to understand the perspectives of each storyteller and understand not just their actions, but their reasons, and to forgive hurts done when intentions are honest and good." She turned, strode to a chair at the desk, and sat down. "Shall we begin?" She asked the other three.

Ser Mandon sat first, then Tristan, next to the Lady of Widow's Watch. Kennet, hesitantly, sat next to Mandon, across the table directly from Lynessa Flint.

"Tristan," Lady Lynessa said gently, "will you begin? I believe you have a lot to tell Kennet."

"Aye," Tristan sighed, looking down. "A lot."

For the first time, momentarily, Kennet thought his father looked truly old.


	8. Family, History, Swords

**So! Chapter eight... In which plotlines are not continued as such, but in which backstories and background information are established and clarified. Hope you guys enjoy!**

**Oh, and thanks again to all reviewers, followers, etc., hell, even viewers! I appreciate it all a lot!**

* * *

"Firstly, Kennet... I'm sorry. This tale starts a long time ago, with our ancestors... What they had gained, I had lost, and in the doing so cost both yourself and myself dearly."

Kennet's mouth opened to question, but Tristan held up his hand, looking up into the eyes of his son.

"You shall have your answers, be they in the tale or afterward. Patience."

_Whatever this is, you have hidden it from me for the twenty-two years of my life so far._ "I can wait," Kennet stated

Tristan nodded, and went on. "The family was respected in the area for over a thousand five hundred years, winning little honour or glory, but surviving well. We had a keep, would it be believed, and a few nearby smallfolk; we were a small lordship, sworn to the House of Umber, and similarly close to the Wall."

Ser Mandon leant back and considered the words, Kennet listened intensely, and Lady Lynessa had her head bowed, as if mourning.

"The House survived the invasion of the Targaryens. The House survived many wars of Northern Lords and houses. Rumours had it that we'd married into the Greystark line sometime before the exile of that house, or they into us. The House survived the visit of a Queen and a Dragon, and we renamed our Keep accordingly. Queenscrown, it was. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

"In passing, no more," Kennet said, wonderment in his tone and sadness in his bearing.

"It was nothing too special, besides the invisible crossing to the moat and the gold paint at the top. But it's house had fought and lived for so long, as had it's people, against Boltons, Greystarks, Skaagosi, and we had men behind Torrhen Stark when he met the dragons and knelt. But what brought us down after all that? What did I let beat us? Wildlings." The shame and regret was written all over Tristan's face.

"I was the last Lord of Queenscrown. My father had died when I was but sixteen. He had been hunting, and a group of Wildlings ambushed him. Thankfully, well... I'll get to that later.

"I had very few years in charge. Four, in total, and by the end Queenscrown was ramshackle. We had been subject to increasing raids as more and more people fled the Gift and the Wildlings pillaged further South for close to fifty years. Finances were bad, morale was worse, and so were the harvests. There was a winter, short but harsh. Wildlings, evidently fleeing their own colds, continued raiding. The nearby smallfolk kept leaving, and I knew I was Lord of little more than my own body.

"I took the cart and the horses, in which I put the family treasures and some expensive furnishings, and I gave money to my faithful friends and servants, and I told the people I and they must leave. They, mostly, heeded my words."

Tristan's head was bowed. Lady Lynessa clasped his shoulder.

"I headed for Karhold. There, I sold many of the furnishings and valuables, and the horse and cart, though I kept some that were closest to my heart and to the House's history, which I shall come back to later.

"With the money, I purchased a small merchant ship fresh from the shipyard. I also brought goods and hired crew, and prayed for more success as a merchant than I had as a Lord. The gods did not disappoint me."

Tristan smiled thinly. "The first few trips, selling furs to men of White Harbour for large profit, worked well, as the winter was cold even down there. I was able to buy a house near Karhold. I had money for supplies, and I was beginning to associate with merchants and receive better deals. It was around that time that I first came to Widow's Watch. I was twenty-two."

Lady Lynessa remarked, "He was young, and handsome, and had a sorrowful tale to tell, but he was making something of himself despite it. He was offered by myself the hospitality and friendship of Widow's Watch."

"Which I accepted," stated Tristan. "And I put into her trust some of the heirlooms of the House. Ships can sink, I said, but history we should never lose."

"Much to the displeasure of my Lord Father," Lady Lynessa continued, "he remained here, allowing Phillep to take the ship to trade elsewhere. We grew close, but Lord Arnet Flint decided it was past the time I should be married, his second daughter; though my older sister, Sybella, had married just that month.

"The chosen suitor was a Tallhart, but almost five-and-thirty. Before he arrived at Widow's Watch, however, he sustained an injury to his leg, and his Maester diagnosed he not partake in any strenuous or stressful activity until he deemed it healed." Lady Lynessa sighed.

"However, it was not to be as my father expected even then, for, in a moment of weakness, fear, and shared and remembered and anticipated pain, I lost my maidenhead, Kennet, to your father," stated Lady Lynessa.

"It was a year before Haldhan Tallhart recovered again. During that time, I had it put about that I had always enjoyed horse-riding, so as to explain the loss of my maidenhead, and that I was ill, so as to explain why I was not leaving the tower, and why meals were only delivered to me."

Lynessa Flint looked deep into Kennet's eyes, searching for a realisation. Kennet could guess what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"I did not leave the tower, Kennet, because I was pregnant. With your father's child. With you."

There was silence in the tower. Kennet stared into Lady Flint's eyes, then glanced around them, analysing her features. She had his nose, and his brow, though the set of her cheekbones were different; his were akin to his father's, but gentler. She and Tristan both had dark hair, as did Kennet.

She and Kennet both were taller than Tristan, but Kennet had his father's build more.

The similarities were evident.

Kennet nodded, acknowledging one of the truths that had been hidden to him. He leant forwards, elbows on knees and chin resting on his hands as he looked down, waiting for them to go on, guessing there was more to the story.

"I took you back to Karhold, had you fed, and raised you," Tristan explained. "I trained you, I educated you; I taught you what I had learnt in life. And, often, I returned to Widow's Watch, and to your mother."

"I concealed the marks of my pregnancy using a dye for my skin, which your father had procured, and which he supplied me with regularly, until the second time I became pregnant, now by my husband.

"We lived here, as my mother had informed my father that she could bear children no more, and my sister Sybella had died in childbirth along with her child. I was to be the Lady of Widow's Watch, while my husband and our children were to inherit.

"However, sixteen years ago there was the Rebellion. My father led the Flint troops south, and left myself and Haldhan to hold Widow's Watch. He died at the Trident, and, some months later, my mother also passed."

_All this family I have never known, yet they are of my blood, or, rather, I am of theirs._

"Haldhan, my husband, was a fool. I ran the castle myself, and he simply led men to their deaths and his in the next chance he had, the Greyjoy rebellion. I have been the Lady of Widow's Watch since, and my son, Robin, has now gone the way of his father and grandfather. Dead in a war."

"I rode under Robin Flint, in the rearguard, on the journey to the Twins," stated Kennet. "He was a good man."

"He was a young man, younger than even you," Lynessa told him. "Twenty is too young for a man to die. The Freys have robbed me a son."

"The Freys have robbed us all," Ser Mandon stated. "White Harbour grieves Ser Wendel equally, I can assure you, and King Robb just as much."

"Naturally," Lynessa agreed.

"Kennet," Tristan asked, "you mentioned you journeyed to the Twins?" The unspoken "how did you survive?" was clearly present in the emphasis on the second _you_.

"Aye," Kennet said, "and escaped with both my life and something far more important." Kennet dug from a bag at his side the Royal Decree. "I was guarding the Young Wolf's tent when the Frey slaughter first began," he explained.

He laid it on the table before them, his parents, becoming suddenly self-conscious.

The silence whilst they read it was deafening. Kennet looked down at his hands, clasped at his knees, and glanced up to Mandon, who shrugged helplessly.

"Kennet," Tristan said quietly, "you travelled here by ship, did you not?"

Kennet looked up. Lynessa Flint, his mother, was scanning the names at the bottom of the page. His father was looking him in the eyes.

Kennet nodded. "The Stone Maiden."

"Where did you find her?"

"White Harbour." Kennet looked to Mandon. "The Manderlys, once Patrek Stonefrost had arranged a meeting through Willhem Mallann, were extremely generous and helpful. Lord Wyman, along with myself and other members of his household," again, Kennet glanced conspicuously at Mandon, "helped in the formulation of, and execution of the first steps of, a plan."

"Am I to take it that yourself and Ser Mandon would be a part of this plan?" Lady Lynessa asked.

"Indeed we are," said Ser Mandon. "We head for the wall and for our King."

"We shall persuade him," Kennet continued, "by presenting him with this Royal Decree, and the responses that the plan receives from around the North, hopefully successes in driving the Ironborn from the south-western shoreline and from the Wolfswood, as well as potentially staging a takeover and repair of Moat Cailin." As he spoke, Kennet glanced from one face to the other, gauging their reactions.

His father was nodding along as they talked on strategy and tactics, but Kennet found it trickier to decipher Lynessa Flint's expression.

Her eyes were wide, head tilted; a bittersweet smile was spreading across her face.

She turned to Tristan, who looked at her and immediately embraced her. Her voice was emotional, almost tearful yet not quite, rather, regretful. "Our son's grown up so much without me," Kennet heard, and he blushed, staring downwards again.

When he looked up again, they'd separated, and Lynessa was wiping the corner of her eye lightly. "Apologies," she laughed lightly. "You must think me a fool."

"I would wager good coin that many in your position would have a similar reaction," Kennet told her, "and many more worse."

She smiled, and almost giggled, saying to Tristan, "He has your charms!"

Kennet scowled almost childishly, knowing his cheeks were reddening. He sent Mandon a glance, almost a plea for help, and the man from White Harbour was merciful.

"Excuse me, Tristan," Ser Mandon commented, "but during your story, I believe you mentioned some things to be told at the end. Might I enquire after them?"

Tristan nodded, and Kennet mouthed _thanks_ to Mandon. "Yes, there were some things I left out, such as the identity of the House heirlooms which I left at Widow's Watch, and the banner of our House. Although, Kennet, were you to glance down at your left arm, the sigil you would see is it. A Shadowcat, black and white, on grey. Legend has it that one of our ancestors, Lord Bryndon, tamed one and took it as the sigil of the House."

Kennet stared at the token on his arm, shocked at the coincidence that Wynafryd had been reminded of that banner, of his father's, over any other of thousands in the world.

"Where did you get that, by the way?" Tristan questioned, a puzzled tone to his voice.

"It was a gift, a token, from no less than the Lady Wynafryd Manderly. We had worked with Lord Manderly on the tactics of the coming months, and she heard Ser Mandon make a comment on how I fought "like a cat" while we sparred in the yard. Before I left the next day, she arrived at the harbour with it, and with Ser Mandon."

"Had she found it in a book somewhere?" Tristan queried.

"She said she had, and that she remembered it that night," Kennet explained.

Tristan nodded. "The next thing I have to tell you has to do with your fighting style. I told you how my father died when hunting, correct?" When Kennet confirmed that, Tristan went on, "It was fortunate that he did not take the greatest heirlooms of the house with him, our blades, with which generations had fought, perfecting our fighting technique to their use."

"_Two_ blades of Valyrian Steel?!"

"Aye. One of middling length, one short, hilts of carved shadowcat bone. Their names are Tooth and Claw. In fact..." Tristan trailed off, narrowing his eyes. "Lyn," he said, "where are they? After all this time... I would like to see them."

Lady Lynessa smiled at him. "They are yours. Of course you can see them; keep them, even." She stood, turning, and headed to the other side of the room, where the bed was. She stopped before a chest, pulling a key from her bodice and opening it.

She dug through what appeared to be many dresses and formal clothes, before reaching her hand in and drawing first one, then another sword from the bottom of the pile triumphantly, before taking both by the handle and taking them, slowly, reverently, to the waiting Tristan, whose face - whether due to Lady Lynessa, the swords, or both Kennet knew not - could only be described as loving.

The Lady of Widow's Watch presented the former Lord of Queenscrown with his house's blades.

Tristan took the larger first, balancing it on his palm. He held it close to his eye, searching for any blemishes; his grin indicated he found none.

"As fine as it ever was," Tristan proclaimed, setting it down on the table.

Tristan examined it. It was a medium-length blade of sharp and shimmering and rippled steel, mainly dark metal, but with the odd ripple that looked distinctly white. The tip was white. The shape of the blade was odd; it curved inwards as it got thicker, almost as if it were an elongated claw; Claw being the word that was engraved upon the blade. The crossguard was bone, as was the grip of the hilt; though those bones were smaller. Kennet thought that they were likely from the paws of a shadowcat, and laughed a little. _Of course they are. Where else do you attach a claw?_

Kennet glanced up, to see his father holding the other sword, Tooth, in his left hand. It was thicker than Claw, and shorter, with a fully white blade rather than partially, and the curve was less pronounced. It also had a crossguard of bone, this time with teeth pointing forwards from it, and rings of teeth formed the bottom of the hilt as well, though the rest was leather. The name was also on the blade.

"I always preferred Tooth," Tristan stated. "Claw seemed less elegant. And Longclaw, the Mormont blade, seemed to overshadow it. Tooth is both unique and beautiful." Tristan laughed, but it was a painful thing, a laugh of regrets and realisations. "Of all the things for the priveledged to be petty about, which of my house's two Valyrian Steel blades I preferred was the stupidest of all."

There was nothing Kennet could say to that, particularly seeing as he suspected he also preferred Tooth.

With a sharp sigh, Tristan placed the blade on top of it's counterpart. "Try them," he said quietly.

Tristan first took Tooth, admiring the smoothness of the blade and the craftsmanship of the rough, worn hilt. It was a beautiful thing, yet who knew the quantities of blood it had spilt over decades, centuries even, of use?

Claw's hilt was longer, the pommel more rounded, but it was comfortable in Kennet's hand. It was clearly not built to have the point face one way or the other, as the symmetry of the hilt indicated, and Kennet suspected the crossguard in this case was a leg bone.

He stood to weigh them in his arms, checking their reach. "They're excellent," Kennet said with wonder.

"Indeed," Tristan said, "but I have a little more to tell you yet. Place the swords down."

Kennet does so with reverence.

"The words of our House," Tristan said, "are "We Pounce From The Shadows," and the house name, the surname I should have told you, is Resquin. Your surname."

"But it isn't, is it?" snapped Kennet. "I'm born outside of marriage, to nobles on both counts. My surname is Snow, but truly I was happier with none." Suddenly, he stood again, purposeless, and began to stride around the room. "You show me all this, tell me all this, now?! Not when I was young, accepting, when I might have been content to know, but now, when I needs must fight in a war. You show me these things, this life you led, father, but which I cannot, and you say this is my heritage? You say "House Resquin" as if it matters to me!" Kennet looked his father in the eyes, jaw trembling. "Why?"

It was the one, far too simple question that would forever be asked in times of trouble, and sometimes would have no true answer, Kennet knew, but still he had to ask.

"First, I was ashamed," admitted Tristan. "I feared the things I'd lost would be more important than the things I'd kept to such a young child. Then, it was habit. I thought it was too late, I thought you did not need to know, and so I still did not say. And then, again, I was ashamed at having not told you sooner. I can only plead forgiveness for not telling you, Kennet... And you are no bastard."

Kennet glanced from his father to his mother to his father, taking a step forwards. "How so?"

His gaze alighted on his mother as she began to speak, a spark of rebelliousness in her eyes. "I would not have gone against my father's wishes in any but the most total fashion I could. We wed before the gods and none other."

Kennet could not speak for some reason.

"Darling," his mother said, and it took him some time to realise she meant him, "you are no bastard, but the heir to a near-dead House."

Kennet looked around then, at his father's proud grin, his mother's pretty smile, and even Ser Mandon's little quirk of the lips, and rather suspected he'd never been happier.


	9. Family Time

**Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, I've been busy and lazy and it isn't a great combination. Apologies! Once again, thanks a lot for all the reviews, the favourites, and, this time, particularly the follows; one more and this is past the 100 followers boundary, and equal to the highest number of followers on any story of mine here, which is phenomenal. So thanks a lot for the great support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

**(A lot of new characters introduced here; I apologise for the confusion it may create, but I had to fill the time waiting for the raven from White Harbour and it makes too much sense not to have it happen... But there are a lot not new faces. Be warned!)**

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It was to be a week and three days before a raven came.

After the culmination of the meeting on the day in which Kennet reached Widow's Watch, a raven had been sent to White Harbour, stating that there had been little news nor business there of late, and one particular layabout merchantmen had chosen to remain at the place with his holds full, roaming the nearby countryside like some kind of lax Lord with his recently arrived son.

They took no chances regarding the corrupt Maester Theomore.

There was no reply to that raven, but there needn't have been. Best not waste the birds.

The _Stone Maiden_, having both sold and brought goods, departed two days after, Patrek waving a cheery farewell. Kennet had spent those two days mainly speaking with his parents, better getting to know his mother and learning more of his father's life, helping to bridge the surprisingly small divide that had formed between them upon the revealing of all that had been kept from Kennet for so long.

He had also discovered, on the first day, that Robin Flint had not been his only sibling, or half sibling. There were two half-siblings of his, a half-sister and a half-brother, Kara and Theo, fifteen and thirteen, respectively.

Kara was a rebellious, determined, and fiery girl, who refused to allow him to take the place of her big brother, "Whether in the line of succession or in my heart."

Kennet on his third attempt managed to placate her, with the words, "I claim not any place in the line of succession of Widow's Watch, when you have had yours for your whole life, and I have known nowt of even the possibility. I have always accepted a lower lot in life than some, and I can continue as such. As for your brother, the dead cannot be replaced in one's heart, and I would not attempt to do so, though I would have some place, if I could with your permission, with the family I have never known. I swear the truth of these words mine by the gods."

From then, she held a grudging acknowledgement and respect for him, which he supposed would be the best she could give while still grieving her older brother.

Theo was an energetic child. It was said that he took after his father, with his lighter hair colour and enthusiasm for fighting and hunting. He had taken to Kennet relatively well, upon witnessing a sparring match between he and Ser Mandon, and hearing that he'd been a soldier under King Robb.

The boy himself had some skill with a blade, but his footwork needed improvement. When Kennet was speaking with his parents, Ser Mandon could usually be found coaching the lad, and if Theo was elsewhere, the knight took to sparring with the soldiers who were being equipped and trained in Widow's Watch's large courtyard, training them and helping to prepare them for the fighting.

"It is good that the men of the region who will fight as soldiers are being trained now," Kennet stated to Tristan and Lady Lynessa, on his second day at Widow's Watch. "Many of the men who rode beside me, alongside the Young Wolf, had received little-to-no training, and I suspect many of those we faced were the same; drafted for combat with weapons put in their hands."

"We aren't merely equipping the men here," stated Lynessa Flint. "We intend to train them to the level that they are each worth three or four of the men who rode south alongside you."

"How can you be sure that they are?" Kennet had inquired.

"They are told that the test they must pass to end their training is to defeat four untrained men with the same equipment. If they do so, they have passed the test and will receive no more training unless they especially wish it, in which case, they take one-on-one lessons from then on, with the intention of becoming a core group of stronger fighters to more closely guard the leaders of the troops." Kennet's mother was grittily determined, he saw, to produce a force of men that would strike fear into those that had killed her son and her King.

Kennet thought for a few seconds, quietly. Then he asked, "How many men willing to fight remain under Widow's Watch's banners still?"

"There are five hundred, trained and training, both here and in the barracks, which is a mile north of here on the coast. Likely a thousand to a thousand five hundred more untrained would answer our call."

Kennet nodded at Lynessa's answer, before his father said slowly, "I think I know what you're getting at, Kennet..." He left a pause, waiting for his son to continue, which he did.

"If accommodation can be found, could not the men being trained now, or at least those who are further along, begin to train those who are untrained, mayhaps with an instructor guiding a few of those doing the training? And those who wish to train more once the shorter course is completed must also train those who are untrained, while furthering their own progress?"

There would be any number of logistical problems, particularly with Winter near-upon them, but the benefits of a well-trained and organised group of soldiers could more than enough to compensate, if utilised well.

"A possibility," admitted Tristan, "but also a drain on our resources. Finding, or building suitable accommodation, would be just the tip of the spear; and would take more time. Furnishing and staffing such accommodation, as well as the losses that the businesses - farms and fishing vessels, whose men we would be dragging away for this training - would sustain would only weaken the region's monetary strength, which is already waning due to the drains of war and the quantities of weapons that need to be made by the blacksmiths; not to mention the cost of feeding and paying these men."

"It could be done," Lady Lynessa stated. "Accommodation need not be another barracks. Were the soldiers to become used to comfort they would be of less use than if they knew well the workings of a tent. Cloths can be produced with wool, wood chopped from the trees of the surrounding lands. We needs must utilise these resources if we are to manage this task and have a strong, well-trained force to free the North again."

"Were such a programme to be implemented," Kennet pondered, "it would need to happen fast, if it were to have a major impact on the training of the troops and thus on the war effort. Having some troops at least deemed ready to move within one to two weeks could significantly assist in fighting the Ironborn, along the coast and at Moat Cailin both. How long does it take to train one soldier to the correct level?"

"Under normal circumstances, a month for the best results and most are able to fight well enough," Tristan's mother told him. "Along with more experience and training on the road, we would expect most to hold fast in a battle. However, currently, there are around two hundred men currently training who have been doing so for a month, and a hundred for more, counting the trainers, and another two hundred or so have been training for a week. If we intensify the training, both groups of two hundred might be ready in two weeks. The hundred more experienced can remain and train the potential new trainees, if we follow this plan."

"Say we have one thousand five hundred men here to train, though?" Tristan asked. "Fifteen men to one trainer is not reasonable for good individual tutelage."

"Groups of five hundred at a time, then?" Kennet asked. "With a hundred of each five hundred remaining to assist the training of the next five hundred, as well as to guard Widow's Watch from possible assault of the Boltons via the Hornwood lands, down or past the Broken Branch?"

Lynessa frowned. "The Boltons have better things to do than attack us. Already we have lost several hundreds, likely over a thousand men, and my son the Lord. The Boltons want the whole North, but if they are to get it, they shouldn't want to waste time on us. But I doubt they remember that the last harvests before Winter sets in are beginning to be brought in, and if they do, they know not that we withheld this many initially for fear of low yields of grain."

"There is the chance of an attack by sea, then," Kennet said.

"Our enemies could throw themselves against the cliffs for days. Attacking us from the sea is like attacking the Eyrie. We would be better than prepared for that with the customary garrison of one hundred, without keeping three hundreds from fighting in a vital force." Lynessa Flint narrowed her eyes. "You don't think the Boltons will attack. You just want to-"

"To protect you. Both of you." Kennet glanced from his mother to his father, and back and forth again. He found understanding and love on both their faces, but a sadness on his mother's and a wry smile on his father's.

"Kennet," Tristan grinned, "we can take care of ourselves. As can you. I hope we can trust each other in this."

Kennet smiled, surprised at the gentle teasing of his sentimental wishes.

"It isn't that he's doubting us," Lynessa told Tristan, before looking back to Kennet. "You've only just found me, only just reunited with your father. You want to be sure that we are well protected in case what you are trying to do goes amiss."

Kennet nodded, sheepishly.

"No need to worry, Kennet. We are quite safe as it is, and your suggestions will only help us remain so."

He had nodded again, and shortly excused himself, passing Ser Mandon training Theo Flint in the courtyard when he had exited the keep. The two didn't notice him, so Kennet went on, searching for the oldest of his full siblings.

Following the death of Lady Lynessa's official husband in the Greyjoy rebellion, she and Tristan had reunited. Two years later, their first daughter had been born, a beauty and covertly rebellious as their mother had been in her youth, but with more of their father's serious nature, and his stature. Her name, taken from an old Skaagosi name of a Queen, who had married into the Stark line as a part of the treaty that had seen the people of Skaagos become a part of the North, was Iseult. She was eleven.

She and Kennet had spoken a few times the previous day, both with and without their parents, telling stories of their childhoods, Kennet learning about his mother and Widow's Watch, Iseult learning of Karhold, and more of her father, though she also had him tell of where he'd been, both North and South. He made sure to be careful not to speak of his task when talking of, for example, the Wall, for it had been agreed that such things would be best revealed to the young ones when news came of the King.

Kennet had three more full siblings, all male; the youngest, Bryndon, named for his and his father's ancestor Lord Bryndon, who had supposedly tamed a shadowcat, had been born but a month past; his imminent arrival had kept their mother from the Winterfell harvest festival.

Kennet knew not what to make of one so young, and awkwardly kept his distance when he could.

His other brothers, seven years old and eight years old, were fighting each other near-constantly. Dann, the elder, who was named not after, but acknowledging Danny Flint, was thinner and taller, often using his leverage to get the better of his younger brother, named Arnet after Lady Lynessa's father. However, Arnet was strong for his size and age, and Kennet thought that Dann was a little too close to his brother for comfort in skill level.

He would interact a little with them on the third and fourth days, wrestling a bit, but they were happier left to their own devices and he recognised that.

He spent most of the remainder of the second day in Iseult's company, speaking on a variety of topics including the North, the gods, history, and the dragons; discussions that continued over the course of the next five days, developing repeated jokes and deepening discussions, leaving Kennet decidedly impressed by the ten-year-old's mental capabilities.

During the next four days, he assisted Ser Mandon in training both recruits and Theo, as well as discussing strategies with his mother and father. It was decided eventually that the four hundred troops, when they were ready in a week or so's time, would have to take and hold Moat Cailin, against both Bolton and Greyjoy forces, from both north and south; they would be told to expect five hundred reinforcements in between two and three weeks, and another five hundred after the same interval, and another after them. Manderly reinforcements, and other Northern reinforcements, would be welcomed, if they came; though they would have other tasks first.

The Flint troops would move through Hornwood lands, and if asked, would state that they were defending the North from it's enemies, but not say where they were heading, in case of spies.

A message was being sent by ship to Patrek Stonefrost, who would convey the movement to Lord Manderly so that The Lord would not be alarmed.

The troops would not carry banners of the Flints of Widow's Watch, but the Direwolf of Stark; a warning to the Boltons that they were no Wardens of the North. They had no loyalty of it's men, and the Red Wedding would not be forgiven. Would never, could never, even, be forgiven.

Atrocities would be remembered and avenged.

The North did not forget it's losses. The North had more respect than that.

The North would avenge the North with an icy fury, and woe and death to any Bolton or Frey that got in it's way.

Late on Kennet's tenth day at Widow's Watch, or early on the eleventh, the raven arrived from White Harbour. He was called immediately to his parents' solar.

_Mormonts rallying the mountain clans. Umbers acknowledge claim and recommendations, 150 men leaving to the wall in a week's time. Riders have rallied men and helped drive the Ironborn from several coastal villages. Message received from Stonefrost. Momentum swings to our favour. Now is the time._

_Retrieve our King._


	10. A Hushed Departure

**Hello again! Quite a quick update, this, and quite a quick chapter too. However, this is now officially my most followed story, so thanks a lot for all the support! **

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The household, Tristan and Lynessa and their children and her children, gathered around the private harbour of Widow's Watch. Though the main harbour was where the Shadowcat had docked, there was a personal harbour, smaller, around the other side, big enough only for a rowing boat. A line of rocks surrounded the small harbour, which led to an easily-sealed, watched, and guarded stairwell.

The water in the harbour was calm, thanks to the rocky barricade, but Kennet could hear the crash of the waves; he had known worse, for sure, and it was a calm clear night. The stars above shone clear, and he remembered the stories he'd been told as a child, of the constellations.

The Ice Dragon gazed down on them, bright and cold.

Bryndon, as a baby, had been left in Widow's Watch, but Arnet and Dann were there, launching themselves at Kennet in a farewell akin to another wrestling session.

He caught them and held them up, looking one then the other, as best he could with the wavering torchlight, in the eye. "Farewell, be strong, and the best of luck to you both," he told them. They nodded in unison, and he lowered them again, ruffling their hair.

Next, Iseult stepped forwards, but Theo butted in and barged past, so she remained next to Dann and Arnet for as long as it took for Theo to shake him by the hand before turning to Ser Mandon, who stood behind him.

Kennet stepped forwards to meet Iseult's hug, pulling her up into his arms and whispering to her, "Mother and Father can tell you the whole story soon, if this plan works, and when I see you next I'll explain it all. Stay safe."

She nodded vigorously. "You too, brother. Stay safe." She held him tighter for a second, and he lowered her to the ground.

Before he let her go, he whispered again, "Love you little sister."

She smiled, he kissed her on the head, and she rejoined her place in the line from which Kara now strode.

"I don't know what you're leaving for," she said, "but I know it's important. Best of luck."

She extended a hand to shake, solemnly, which he took with a nod. "Best of luck."

Next, his father stepped forwards, pride on his face and love in his eyes. "You know what to do. I know you'll fight for it. I lost the family honour and you can regain it, I know you can." He removed his sword-belt, passing it to Kennet. "Keep them."

Tooth and Claw, in beautiful scabbards, hung from the belt. Kennet took it, wordlessly, staring at them, before strapping the belt on quickly and hugging his father, with the words, "Thank you so much, father," and almost sobbing, but he gritted his teeth and breathed deeply, and he did not weep. His was a mission of hope, not sorrow, and he would see it through.

"It is no more than you deserve," Tristan stated, releasing Kennet and retreating.

His mother was there next, and she kissed his forehead. "Stay safe," she told him. "Don't die."

Kennet held her close. "I won't."

After a few moments, they separated. Kennet looked to the rowing boat and the old boatman, and glanced at Ser Mandon too, before looking back at his family.

"Farewell," he said, and there was a quiet chorus of replies in kind, before he turned to the boat that would take him and Ser Mandon past the row of rocks and out to the waiting Shadowcat, where four lanterns indicated the locations of the prow, the stern, and the rope ladder they would ascend.

Glancing down, he stroked the hilts of Tooth and Claw, before touching Lady Wynafryd's token for luck, and then Kennet of House Resquin stepped onto the boat.


	11. Eastwatch

**Hey! We've reached the Wall this chapter, so it's close to the meeting with Jon that many of you are looking out for! I'd like to say that I have what I would consider to be a pretty awesome scene in mind for their meeting, which should be in two chapters' time. Hope you enjoy this one in the meantime, though!**

**Oh, and there's more news, in that this is now my most followed story! Thanks for all the support, people; I wasn't expecting this much of it so fast, or at all, really, so it's really great that this story is doing so well! Thanks!**

**So! On to the chapter!**

* * *

It was a quiet sea voyage North, for the most part. While some ships such as the _Stone Maiden _might have taken a week, particularly in negotiating the Bay of Seals off Skagos, the _Shadowcat_ managed the journey in four days. The weather was mainly calm during that period, only causing a little trouble on the third day.

The only thing which might have amounted to trouble that they saw were a few small, warship-shaped silhouettes which appeared to the south of them on the first day, but the _Shadowcat_ was faster, and left them behind without making contact.

Kennet knew not what such ships should be doing off the Northern coast, but was glad that it didn't seem they would need to find out. They likewise were pleased to encounter no ships from the Dreadfort, when they passed the piece of coastline on which the Weeping Water lay on the second day. Then again, the Boltons were never the strongest sea power, and it was perhaps no surprise that their waters were clear.

The Grey Cliffs, directly south of Skagos and the Bay of Seals, they passed without event on the third day, having seen some trading vessels heading out of Karhold before reaching them. No contact was made, but acknowledgement was noted.

Some sightings of Skaagosi watercraft were all that marked the journey through the Bay of Seals, on the fourth day, and at nightfall, the fires of Eastwatch were spotted; as were the fires at the height of the Wall.

There were no men in the harbour, and it seemed few in the castle itself, judging by the torches, which were sparsely scattered in the latter at best. It seemed that atop the wall was where they stayed at nights, the Night's Watch; until the Shadowcat was close enough to make the approach to the harbour, turning outwards past a shoal of low rocks the navigator knew were there and offering a view beyond the Wall.

An army, torches ablaze, was throwing it's might against the Wall, and the Night's Watch were occupied repelling them with flaming arrows.

The ship made it into the harbour using the Shadowcat's crew's well-practised technique of sending a smaller two-man craft out ahead to guide the way with torches. While that was underway, Kennet and Mandon discussed with Phillep the best course of action to take from there.

Of course, helping to assure that the Wall's defences didn't fall while they were there would be beneficial, but could result in the crew or the ship being roped into temporary help - for rather longer than they'd perhaps hope.

It was agreed that the ship would stay put, but with men on watch through the rest of the night. If it became clear that the Wildlings were breaking through under cover of darkness, they would have to leave the harbour, if not, they would stay.

As Phillep had said, "We don't want to wake with our throats slit, or fight with our feet tied to the Wall!"

Kennet took the last watch, waking in time to hear the Night's Watch's exhausted cheers as they staggered back to their beds in the keep of Eastwatch, which was a dull, large, square shape.

The goods were soon offloaded once the rest of the men awakened, and Kennet, Tor, the horse, and Ser Mandon disembarked, leaving Phillep and the crew to unload and to trade with the gradually waking men of the Watch.

From what little Kennet had heard of Cotter Pyke, the man was almost always brutally honest and borderline offensive often. He wasn't sure they'd receive much help from him regarding travel to Castle Black, but they'd need a horse for Mandon and would likely be brought to the man's attention.

Still, it would be best to attempt at least to avoid potential problems such as Cotter Pyke, and there were a few stableboys in the yard who could be questioned on the matter.

Unsure how to begin such a conversation, Kennet simply chose to leave it to Mandon, stepping up next to a stable door and allowing Tor to greet the horse within. His grey garron sniffed suspiciously and almost skittishly at the large and sturdy brown, then wobbled, clearly still readjusting to solid ground.

The brown mare snorted and nudged at Tor, sniffing the smells of the ocean before nudging the grey with her nose, encouraging some kind of quiet response and shake of the head from Tor. Kennet turned from the horses to see that Ser Mandon was confronting a stableboy, who was resolutely telling him that the horses in the stables all belonged to the Watch.

"A question, then, boy," said Ser Mandon. "How many horses are stabled here?"

"Must be 'round sixty or seventy, Ser."

"And how useful are they to your men?"

The boy frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"There's an army outside your gates. You can't be going on many rangings, and I suspect your men don't have the time for just riding south of the Wall. These horses won't be needed for some time; you can find more use in buying supplies with the money I'd pay you for one."

The stableboy looked taken aback, but soon narrowed his eyes defensively. "'Ow much?"

"Ten dragons, for that large brown horse just next to my friend's, with full equipment," Mandon stated. It was a reasonable enough price. Many farmers would never see as much as a dragon, even for carthorses; fine warhorses, on the other hand, with bridle, saddle, and tack...

"Eighteen," the stable lad shot back.

"Ten."

"Seventeen."

"Ten."

"Fifteen."

"Ten."

"Fifteen."

"Eight, for the Watch. Two for you."

Mandon had cut to the heart of the matter; the lad had wanted a surreptitious yet significant chunk of the price, and he leapt at the offer. "Deal." The pair shook.

The lad sprang into action, fetching the horse's saddle, bridle, and so on, receiving a few odd glances from the other stableboys as he did so but waving them off. Mandon was stroking and surveying the horse during the process and seemed satisfied that he'd made a good buy.

"She's eight years old, now," the boy told them while fastening the bridle. "A stubborn one, but you're a knight. You can handle a horse."

"Better than he can handle a sword, hopefully," Kennet jibed.

"Just because you won six matches to four once doesn't immediately make you better than me!" Ser Mandon replied, faux-harshly.

The stableboy glanced at Kennet, at Kennet's swords, in Mandon's general direction, and suddenly and sharply back at Kennet's swords with a gasp, before narrowing his eyes and looking Kennet over a second time.

Kennet was wearing both Lady Wynafryd's token, the black-and-white shadowcat on grey, and the crossed dark spear and sword on green of House Blackmyre, which Lady Katryn, Lord Darion's daughter, had given him. Tooth and Claw were strapped to his right and left sides respectively, his hands on their pommels. He had two knives on him, one, on his leg, his own, while he had strapped to his back, under his shirt, the King's dagger. The spear that Darion Blackmyre had gifted him was on his back, too.

"Stop staring," he told the boy, "keep working. You're being paid well to do it."

The boy's eyes widened, and he nodded hastily, finishing tightening the saddle when the brown horse exhaled, and performing a final check before pronouncing the horse to be ready. "Oh, Ser, by the way, her name's Lark, though she barely responds to it anyway."

Ser Mandon paid him the gold and opened the stable, allowing Lark out and grabbing the horse by the reins before it bolted. A nod to the boy, a calming stroke to the mare's neck, and Kennet and Mandon headed back to the harbour to say their farewells and fetch provisions.

The air was bracingly cold, colder than Kennet had been since he'd left Karhold last, and after they'd said their farewells they set off, across the plains, west, following the Wall.

It was rather incredible, not only the heights that the Wall reached, but the distance. Kennet had seen the 700-foot fortification previously, at the opposite side; the Shadow Tower. Not only the sheer impressive scale of the wall at a single point, but the knowledge that such a large, immense structure extended that far, from one side of the North to the other, was incredible. But following it on such a journey... Even the idea of seeing a small part of the historic construction was an entrancing one. The history of it was well-known, and one which had always fascinated Kennet.

Ser Mandon, who'd never seen the Wall before, and had been distracted by the ongoing battle and darkness during their landing and the business at Eastwatch after, spent the first mile or so staring up at it in wonder, and Kennet left him to it.

The wonder would turn to boredom would turn to the monotony of a long trek across land soon enough. Best let the knight from White Harbour enjoy it while he could. It would be a few days of riding before they reached Castle Black, if not a week.

Castle Black, and then, the King. And then, a long fight, a struggle, and, with luck, a restoration of Stark authority in the North and independence.

Or death for the cause.

They would take the risk.


	12. Castle Black

**So... This is the build-up to a big chapter. By big, I mean important. I have no idea how long it'll be. I've been envisioning it for ages though, so I hope it's good, when it comes... But yeah, today is not that day. This is the build-up. It took a while because, for all his awesomeness, Aemon is very tricky to write. I can only hope I haven't entirely butchered his character.**

**And on that note... The chapter!**

* * *

On the first day from Eastwatch, they passed Greenguard, which was looking more icy, grey and black than green. The Torches, Long Barrow, Rimegate, Sable Hall, Woodswatch-by-the-Pool and Oakenshield were much the same in description. They passed The Torches and Long Barrow on the second day, Rimegate on the third, Sable Hall and Woodswatch on the fourth, and by the end of the fifth Kennet and Mandon were frozen, but had passed Oakenshield and could see the fires of Castle Black ahead. Rather than spend another night on the road, it was decided they should push on.

Side by side they rode, Ser Mandon of House Manderly and Kennet of House Resquin. The tall knight was good company on such journeys, he and Kennet debating such things as swordplay and tactics regularly on their travels. This nightfall, however, there was silence. A culmination of the journey was sensed, an arrival; any plans required had already been made.

They would take the prudent path of simply walking into the castle and asking for Jon Snow and go from there. If he had been on the ranging Lord Manderly had mentioned, or he was elsewhere, they would have to wait, or seek him out. They would have to ask, and act accordingly, but hopefully he would be there.

Castle Black, as it turned out when they got closer, was less a castle and more a collection of buildings in it's main structure. When they got closer, Kennet and Mandon observed an unmanned and ragged barrier around its edge, over which rose the lights of lanterns and torches. It was clear that this barricade was both recently and hastily built, for some reason Kennet couldn't quite fathom.

They found an entranceway, to the south of the castle, a gate with no men on guard. Their horses trotted through by the light of the scarce lanterns and dim moon.

The courtyard was cold, but not silent. There were lights and torches around them, and at the top of the Wall, from which the odd shout would echo, and occasionally there would be sounds of tired stumbling or snoring from the surrounding buildings. The two stopped, Tor and Lark shuffling about to ward off the cold of the night, in the light of a tower's doorway.

The tower in question reached up to the sky imposingly, not quite vanishing into the dark sky. There were a few lights on in it, one of which, Kennet now noticed, was moving, heading down towards them. He nudged Mandon, drawing his attention to it, and the two dismounted their horses, turning towards the door to the tower.

Soon enough, a man in the black of the Night's Watch opened the for at the bottom. He was older than both Kennet and Mandon, certainly; the man looked to be sixty, and not in the best condition. His back was hunched, he had very few grey hairs on his head, and he was undeniably ugly. He raised his torch, casting light onto their faces. "The Maester said he heard noises," he said.

"Greetings," Ser Mandon said. "We have travelled here with the intention of speaking with a man named Jon Snow. Do you know where he is, or if a meeting can be arranged?"

The man glanced over them, and up towards the Wall and around the courtyard. "Best wait 'till morning for that, I think... Yes, yes, best wait. The stable is just across the courtyard, if you would, and - yes, the Maester might like to see you. I'll, well, inform him, yes, and you can find your way. It's at the top, below the ravens." The head of the torch wavered, flames flickering, before the man thrust it to Ser Mandon and headed back inside, to the warmth.

Once Kennet and Mandon had stabled their horses, they made their way into and up the tower.

There was a door with a light and sound of conversation coming from it once they'd traversed several floors, and Kennet rapped upon it sharply.

The same man opened it, gesturing them in to a humble chamber and shutting the door behind them, taking up a seat beside the occupant of the room.

The mentioned occupant wore the chains of a Maester and the black of the Night's Watch, and was very old. A wrinkled face and blind eyes peered at them from across a table, at which the man sat. "Welcome, travellers," he told them. "Here, have a seat. Clydas here tells me you are recently arrived and seeking audience with one Jon Snow. I am the Maester of Castle Black, Maester Aemon, and I shall attempt to fill you in on the state of things here."

Kennet and Mandon sat before the desk, in chairs which Clydas had likely placed there before they arrived. "We thank you for your hospitality, Maester Aemon," Kennet began, "for we have travelled far to get here. My companion is Ser Mandon, of House Manderly, and I am Kennet of House Resquin."

"A pleasure to meet you both."

"And to meet you," said Mandon.

"Now, I must ask," Maester Aemon said, "Why have you travelled so far to meet Jon Snow? What is your motivation to leave your homes, Kennet, Mandon?"

"It is to do with his brother, King Robb," said Kennet, "but more than that I'm afraid we can only tell him personally. Do you know where he is, or where he will be tomorrow?"

"At this hour, I he should be asleep, as I just recently heard of him having spent a large amount of time commanding on the Wall during the day. He should be awake early tomorrow. They are sleeping on the Wall now, in a warming shed, all those who can fight. There are rooms below these, and below the library, where you may sleep, once our discussion is done. There is much to tell of Castle Black at the moment."

And so it was that the old Maester, his steward occasionally speaking up too, told Kennet and Mandon of the Wildling assault on the Wall which was ongoing, of Jon Snow's unexpected return to Castle Black after escaping a group of Wildlings that had crossed the Wall and the castle's subsequent defence, resulting in the burning of the stair up the Wall, and of how the Maester himself had told Jon to take command, in the absence of any others deemed capable.

Even now, the Maester said, a wildling assault led by a wooden turtle was being prepared for, an assault that was expected to come tomorrow at some point. Frozen barrels of stone were being prepared, and transported up the wall to drop on the new siege engine when it was close enough to the gate.

Clydas stood at the end, as if to show them to their rooms, but the Maester told him to set up the room and collect them in a few minutes.

Once Clydas was gone, Aemon peered towards their faces unnervingly. "I have a sharp mind," he stated, "and I am grateful that it has not diminished with age as have my eyes and body. But I hope you realise that which the vow of the Night's Watch entails. Jon takes all his obligations seriously, but I do not think he knows himself which he takes the most serious. An honourable lad, a good man, even, but he would not be the first to turn down kingship for his sacred vows." Maester Aemon's voice had grown tough, stern, almost, but in his voice Kennet caught a sense of possibility and maybe regret from the man who had the name of a Targaryen.

"Aemon," Kennet whispered, and the old, wrinkled man blinked slowly. Somehow, it seemed to be a conformation.

"We make our own choices, and we live with them, as long as we live," Maester Aemon stated. "I shall not deny Jon his, though I hope it is the right one."

"And which choice is right?" Kennet questioned.

Aemon laughed gently. "How would I know that, young man? Mayhaps I have simply chosen wrong, all these years. Perchance I have chosen right, I know not. But I know that I have always done what felt right to me." He sighed. "I best sleep, as should you. You can find the rooms downstairs, I trust Clydas shall be there."

Awkward and hushed, Kennet bade the man good night, and led Ser Mandon out.

Once they had chosen beds in the room below, and the light was extinguished, Kennet could not help but say, "Above us sleeps a man who might have been King."

"If he had," Mandon pondered, "mayhaps these wars would never have happenned."

They were silent after that.

* * *

The next morning, Kennet was the first to wake, sore from days on the road. He lay where he was for a minute, still tired, before standing slowly and glancing around the room.

It was clear enough that the Watch was low on men, as the space had no occupied beds, besides those used by Kennet and Mandon, out of around twenty bunks. And that was quite apart from how Maester Aemon had described the state of things there.

Strapping his belt and swords on after dressing, Kennet stared out of the window, at the Wall, and the rest of the castle. There was smoke rising from a place that seemed to be the kitchen, and the outlines of catapults, men, and trebuchets on the Wall were impressive to say the least...

Kennet only wondered if they were enough to hold back a hundred thousand Wildlings determined to cross. He could only hope so.

Kennet was packing the Royal Decree into a bag at his side when Clydas opened the door. "Maester Aemon says you best try to catch Hobb before he takes breakfast up to them on the Wall. Now, it won't be long, so you best start now. I'm sure you're in a hurry."

"Will you wake my friend?" Kennet inquired, and when he received a nod, he fastened the bag and began to head for the exit. Halfway there, though, he turned. "Where should I find this Hobb?"

"The kitchens, there'll be smoke from the chimney. It shouldn't be hard to find."

Kennet left.

He told Hobb that Maester Aemon had allowed him in late last night, and he intended to speak to Jon Snow. The man had nodded. "Want some breakfast, lad?"

Only a fool would have declined. The stew was not flavourful but was steaming hot.

As they headed towards the cage, Hobb asked Kennet, "So why d'you want to meet Lord Snow, then?"

Kennet frowned. "Lord?" _Not as in "Lord Commander," surely?_ Now _that_ would be an obstacle.

"It's a nickname Ser Alliser Thorne gave 'im when 'e was trainin', but people use it more respectfully now, o'course, since he's organising all the men and the fightin'."

So, Jon Snow had a mind for taking responsibility, it seemed. Kennet could only hope that he would pass the responsibility of the Wall to someone else when the time came.

He patted the bag by his side and heard the rustle of paper he'd expected.

Hobb, or Three-Finger Hobb as he was known, opened the door to the cage that would take them to the top of the Wall, yanked on a rope three times, and with pronounced creaking and a jerking motion, the uncomfortable journey began.

It was slow progress, but soon enough, they arrived at the top of the Wall.

Ballistae, catapults, and numerous men with bows, along with one trebuchet which was working and one which appeared broken were scattered along the wall, but the men manning the equipment and holding the bows soon gathered around Hobb to collect their food, which was eaten in near silence and a quiet mood, besides one man, who was japing that perhaps they should just go down there and ask for some mammoth to eat, which raise a few laughs.

Once the crowd had dispersed, Three-Fingered Hobb gestured for Kennet to step out from his spot beside the nearby shed and led him to the right, to the east, Kennet thought, because as long as you knew which side of the wall you were on, and could see it, you would know the points of a compass without one.

Hobb tapped a man on the back. "Lord Snow," he said, "Visitor 'ere for you."

Kennet could sense that there was an authority in this young man, even from behind. There was a sense of confidence in the way he held himself, in his bearing, though just as much there was weariness of the type that came from command and lack of sleep; it was something he'd noticed in his commanders after particularly draining fights and marches.

While his brother had had red hair, in accordance with the jest Kennet had once heard about the trueborn son looking like the mother and the bastard the father, Jon Snow's was dark, and, when he turned, it became clear that his face had the long look associated with his Lord Father. His hand was on the hilt of a sword with a wolf's head pommel, and a bow was strung on his back.

Kennet bowed sharply, keenly aware that this man, if he so chose, might be his king.

"Greetings. My name is Kennet." He glanced around cautiously, bit his lip. "Might I mayhaps speak with you alone? I can assure you, this is of vital importance."

Jon Snow silently nodded to Three-Fingered Hobb, who was hovering in the background, and the cook nodded back and left towards the cage.

"This way," said the man Kennet wished to be King, turning to walk along the Wall, away from the cage. "A short walk should do it. There aren't near as many brothers as I'd like up here. Pyp!" He called towards a group of brothers. "You have the Wall!"

To exclamations of "him?" and "me?" behind them, Kennet followed Jon Snow, no, Jon Stark, along the Wall.

Wildlings on one side, a damaged realm on the other, Kennet could not help but wonder which the legitimised bastard would choose.


	13. The Choices of a King

**Sorry it's been a while... Again. However, there is good news! Firstly, the chapter is here! It took a while mainly as a result of laziness and indecisiveness and reading a lot and school, to which this week I returned.**

**Secondly, the story has moved onto eighty-one favoirites! That's, I think, only fifteen away from my highest ever total for that, and nineteen away from the 100 mark! So thanks a lot to all those who've favourited the story!**

**Another thank you of course goes to all the reviewers, who are great, as well as all the people who've reand the story, followed the story, enjoyed the story, and so on. Thanks for your support!**

**Anyway, the story... This is a big moment. A few of them, in fact; I sincerely hope you like my portrayal of Jon, and that you find this decision-making appropriate in the circumstances.**

**Moreover... Enjoy reading!**

* * *

Passing the broken trebuchet, they left the Night's Watch behind, and there was a clearer and flatter part of the Wall about fifty metres along. There, Jon Snow turned, facing this newcomer with curiosity.

"Kennet, was it?"

"Indeed. Kennet of House Resquin."

"I don't think I've heard of it but in a history book," said Jon Snow.

"I hadn't ever heard of it myself until a couple of weeks ago, but be that as it may, the now landless former Lordly family of Queenscrown are not why I have travelled here," Kennet stated. "This is, I suppose, about your brother."

"I had three of those," was the sharp reply.

"Apologies," Kennet said immediately, ducking his head. "The King in the North. Robb Stark."

"What about him?" A bit more sadness entered Jon Snow's eyes, but his tone remained clipped and neutral.

Kennet contemplated for a few seconds, and said, "Perhaps it'd be best to show you." He untied the straps of his bag and removed from it the Royal Decree, still rolled up.

Jon Snow took it, but didn't open it immediately. "What is this, and where did you get it?"

"I was a part of your brother's army, when he went south, and I fought behind him in several battles. The night of the Twins, however, I'd drawn guard duty of his tent. When the Freys began their treachery, I knew one more fighter wouldn't be much help, and I entered the tent in the hope that something important could be salvaged, before making my escape. And this is indeed important."

Jon Stark nodded, solemnly, and unfurled the parchment. Kennet observed him as his eyes travelled further and further down the page, expression going from curiosity to shock to some form of wistful nostalgia, at which point he'd looked up and sighed deeply, to further shock, to apprehension, to loss, then to some form of resignation.

Approximately halfway through those expressions, Kennet knelt, drawing his swords and holding them before him on his palms. Once Jon Stark glanced up, rolling the parchment slowly, Kennet spoke.

"Your Grace, I realise your obligations here, and the choice before you, but I swear my swords to you nonetheless. Whichever path you take, I shall follow."

There was a pause. "I accept your vow," Jon stated, "but tell me this; does hope remain for an independent North, or a King of such?"

"Yes," Kennet immediately insisted, sheathing Tooth and Claw. "Messengers of White Harbour are surreptitiously gathering men from Hornwood and Cerwyn lands in order to drive the Ironborn from the southwest coast. The Mormonts have received a raven from White Harbour and are rallying the men of the mountain clans to take Deepwood Motte. Four hundred men sworn to House Flint of Widow's Watch, well-trained, are travelling through the countryside towards Moat Cailin, to take it from the Ironborn and hold it against Bolton advances whether from the South or the North. Three times five hundred more will reinforce them at two week intervals. The North can be won, and held, Your Grace, thanks greatly to the assistance of the Manderlys, who must, I should inform you, pretend to be on the side of the Lannisters in order to retrieve their heir, Ser Wylis, who is currently a hostage."

Jon Stark handed Kennet the Royal Decree, walking past him to stare southwards. Kennet put the parchment away, moving to stand behind and to the right of the man who should be King.

"Your Grace?" Kennet asked quietly, but Jon Stark didn't react, or so Kennet thought.

"Kennet," he said after a minute, "what was your dream, when you were young? What did you want to do with your life?"

"I didn't know, I suppose," the man from Karhold said. "Not realistically, anyway. As a boy, I wanted glory and honour and women and the love of my father and to know who my mother was."

Jon Stark nodded. "Do you have any of those?"

"The last two," Kennet said, stroking the hilts of his blades. "And mayhaps honour as well, but certainly not the third."

Another nod. "I wanted the love of my father, I wanted to know who my mother was. But more than both of those, I wanted this," Jon Stark said, gesturing with an arm towards the expanse before them. "I wanted to prove myself, I wanted to be Lord of Winterfell. I wanted to be Warden of the North. This decree is all I could have dreamed thrown to be by my brother from beyond the grave."

With a sigh, and a narrowing of the eyes, the King turned and strode to the other side of the Wall, saying as he did so, "But the Wall needs leadership and the Wall needs men and the Wall faces immense difficulties holding off all these Wildlings, let alone the Others and their wights!"

Kennet took his first look beyond the Wall then. The forest seemed foreboding in the distance, but nearer the base of the wall there were more gaps; enough that some of the wildling besiegers could be clearly seen, many of them busy at work on something which seemed to be large and wooden; pulling the skin of some great dead beast lying next to them over it.

"The turtle, the men are calling it. Just their latest assault. There are a hundred thousand out there, maybe thirty thousand fighters, and mammoths, and giants, and skinchangers, and if all those things we thought to be legends are there," he said, gesturing to the treeline, "then out there are the things we thought nightmares." He pointed to the further, darker forest. "The Wall and the Watch must stop them all. I cannot help with that if I go South."

"Are these Others, these nightmares, real, then?"

"A hundred thousand of the Free Folk don't flee from nothing."

"Giants, too, and skinchangers?"

"I'm not the only one who can confirm that a giant was found dead in the tunnel, and unless you can think of another reason that a shadowcat would trot after Varamyr Sixskins, along with a snow bear an three wolves, skinchangers exist too."

Kennet frowned. "One of my ancestors was said to have a shadowcat as a pet, or companion. It's the sigil of House Resquin."

Jon Stark turned to him. "Most likely, he was a skinchanger, then."

"I suppose."

There was silence.

Eventually, it was not Kennet that broke the quiet - such as it was, with the wind whistling near-constantly.

"I cannot ignore the perils facing the Watch," Jon Stark said, "as they are many and numerous. However, with the support of the North behind me, if I could ensure it was secure from Southern invasion for as long as possible, as well as eliminate dissenting parties within the North, I could greatly reinforce the Wall."

"Have you come to a decision, Your Grace?" Kennet queried gently.

Jon Stark nodded. "Once the matter of the Wildlings is settled, however that may occur, I head Southwards as King in the North."

"And these Others that the Wildlings flee? What of them?"

"So far, it seems they cannot pass the Wall, or they have not tried. I shall have to fight them soon, hopefully with the North at my back."

"Hmm." Kennet paused. "Your Grace, what are the Wildlings like, do you know?"

"They're proud, they're fierce, and they're fair, in their way. They pay no heed nor respect to heritage, just to strength of the person themselves."

Kennet nodded. "As people, Your Grace, are they much different to us?"

"They can love. They can hate. They live, they breathe, their customs are different to ours, they have little respect for those who claim authority in manners they see as unwarranted, and they can fear. In many ways they are the same," Jon said, turning to Kennet, "but I fear an alliance is unlikely."

"How so?"

"They want to cross the Wall, and they want land there to live on, which the Night's Watch feel they cannot allow. They want the Wall's protection, not its arrows."

Pausing, Kennet thought for a second. "Do you feel you cannot allow them past the Wall?"

Jon Stark cast his eyes over the besiegers below, then off into the distance. "No." The tone was close to wistful.

"Then there's a decision you have to make, your Grace; are you a King or a man of the Watch?"

"There is no choice," the King told Kennet. "King or man of the Night's Watch, I am a Stark now, and I shall do what is right."

"And that is?"

"Bring the Wildlings South, in return for their allegiance against the Others. They must man the Wall."

"And Mance Raydar? Deserter of the Watch and King-beyond-the-Wall?"

"He is all that holds that army together. He'll have to live, or we lose them and they'll run amock South of the Wall. Could be they'll do that anyway. I'd rather that than they all die and come back to assault the Wall again."

"Two Kings?"

Jon Stark smiled a little. "He's King-beyond-the-Wall, not behind. Once we defeat the Others, he can take his men back North, if he wishes, though the Gift needs repopulating. But a hundred thousand is too many. They'll have to return in part. I'm sure Mance is reasonable; he's trying to save them, not move them."

"But how would they be gotten South? The Watch wouldn't just allow it to happen."

"Not at Castle Black they wouldn't. There are nineteen castles along the Wall, and sixteen of them are abandoned. Were we to use one of those, Castle Black might fall while we were elsewhere."

"So once some safety for the defenders of the Wall has been assured-"

"IT'S COMING!" came a cry from further along. Jon Stark immediately whirled around, scanning the trees for the wooden turtle - which was impressive, certainly, but was also, with it's new layer of mammoth skin, moving towards the Wall.

The King turned to Kennet. "Yes. Once safety is certain, we go."

"Between seven and ten days ago the Umbers dispatched a hundred and fifty men to support the Wall," Kennet told him hastily, and the King nodded, before turning and striding back towards the men of the Watch.

"For now, this is up to us," came the reply.


	14. Shadowcat

**... It's been far too long since I last posted... Merry Christmas! I'll do my best to update regularly from here; mocks are over, coursework is over, university application is sent off, and with any luck I'll be able to put a bit more time into this.**

**In other news... Over a hundred favourites and a hundred and fifty followers, this story has, the most of any fic of mine on both counts... My thanks go to every single one of you! You're pretty bloody awesome!**

**Anyway, on to the important part. This highly anticipated chapter, as you might have seen... Is called Shadowcat.**

**Have fun reading!**

* * *

Kennet's first meeting with a shadowcat came three days after his first meeting with a King, and the day before that was his first outing beyond the Wall. It was somehow far more ominous when you were on the wrong side, he reflected.

The day in between meeting the shadowcat and crossing the Wall was mainly spent reaching Mance's encampment. Of course, halfway there they were picked up by a scouting party, which they spent the following night with a few miles from their destination, but Kennet, Ser Mandon, and Jon Stark were treated better than he'd have expected, retaining their weapons and horses.

The party's leader, Longspear Ryk or something, had told them that they could keep their weapons, which, he claimed, were nowhere near as deadly as his. The Wildlings had had a good laugh about that, and Jon had told Kennet and Mandon that with the free folk both jokes and politics often boiled down to cocks.

They seemed a good enough sort, then, no less rowdy than any others Kennet had served with.

There was notably far less order in the Wildling camp than in any other Kennet had seen. Different groups seemed to have established themselves in various locations around a large central tent, but each group seemed to be managing itself rather than being managed by individual leaders. There was no structure to the encampment. There was little to no clear chain of command. If subordinates didn't want to, they wouldn't follow orders. It was almost anarchy.

It was refreshing, though. They lived far enough North that ancestry meant nothing and ability meant everything. Here, they didn't have enough breath to waste on meaningless titles long-since lost. Here, the speed of your wit and the strength of your arm decided your status.

Their arrival at the encampment was met with taunts of "Crow!" and "Turncloak!" and "Craven!" directed at the King, but also with confusion and questions as Longspear led them to Mance Raydar's tent.

"He's like no King you've seen but many a clever man. Prefers to be called Mance. He likes to talk, he's a singer and a storyteller as well as a soldier. He can be lied to, but he sees well the hearts of men. Half-truths deeply felt, if you must... No less. But we are not here to lie." So Jon Stark said as they entered the camp.

A tall man with a white beard met them before the tent. "Har! Jon Snow the crow. I feared we'd seen the last o' you."

"I didn't know you feared anything, Tormund," came the King's reply, to which Tormund grinned. "And it's Jon Stark. Best let us pass. We're here to see Mance."

"Well said, lad. I heard your cloak was black a few days ago. If you're here to switch again you best get back to that wall o' yours."

"I'm here to treat with Mance," said Jon. "King to King." Tormund released a booming "_Ha!_" of shock, but reeled back, and the young man strode calmly past him, Kennet and Mandon following in his wake.

Within the tent were two men and two women, one of whom was heavily pregnant. Of the men, one was clearly Varamyr Sixskins, as he was attended by two lean wolves and what could only be a shadowcat; taller and plumper than the wolves, with beautiful fur of white stripes on black.

"You're a brave man, Jon Snow," the other man said, "to come back here after throwing us off the Wall."

"I am not Jon Snow anymore."

"No matter what you call yourself, your men repelled us repeatedly. Two hundred men and a dozen giants we've lost to that Wall," Mance Raydar growled.

"Then, I believed that the Watch were all that would guard the Wall from worse dangers," stated Jon.

"And now, traitor? Why have you come?" Sixskins hissed. The shadowcat gazed predatorially at the King, and Mandon, but ignored Kennet completely.

"To treat with Mance, not you," Jon said, not even glancing at Sixskins. "King in the North to King-beyond-the-Wall. Jon Stark to Mance Raydar."

One of the wolves stepped forward menacingly, growling. "So you come to us? Fool!" Sixskins declared, before Kennet grabbed the skinchanger's arm and held Tooth to his neck.

"Any of those creatures move towards my King and the floor is watered with your blood," he hissed. Varamyr Sixskins stiffened, but the wolf backed down.

"And are you his bodyguards, then?" Mance questioned suspiciously.

"Allies, and representatives of allies," Kennet repliegee gesturing to Mandon, who nodded. "This is Ser Mandon of House Manderly, and I go by Kennet of House Resquin."

"A cat o' Queenscrown come North again? And a landed fish?" Tormund Giantsbane laughed. "Followin' a bastard King? Mance'll write a song about it, that he will."

"I come here to make a pact, not a song," the King in the North declared.

Mance turned, and the eyes of kings met. "Leave us," he ordered. Jon nodded to Kennet and Mandon.

"Even me?" Giantsbane protested.

"Particularly you, Tormund, as always," Mance said, and the four men left the tent to two women and two kings.

* * *

"Stark, is it now?"

"Aye."

"And you wish for a pact?"

"As you do."

Mance's eyes narrowed at the statement. "And just what gives you that idea, crow?"

"You have a hundred thousand here. If you wanted to overwhelm the Watch, overwhelm Castle Black, you could. Any day you chose, you could. And you have not."

"Go on."

Jon continued. "You don't want to tear down the Wall. It has separated us and you for thousands of years. It has proved itself an effective defence, you know it is an effective defence. You know that the Others are coming, that they are out there. I would rather a hundred thousand were defending the Wall than attacking it. You would rather a hundred thousand were living south of it than a hundred thousand dead were breaking it down."

"You claim you can let us south?"

"Not without certain assurances," Jon clarified, "but I would be willing to do so."

"Assurances," Mance scoffed. "We are the Free Folk. We shall not follow your laws, and we shall not promise to."

"I would not expect it of you," Jon stated. "I know that much." /I don't know nothing, Ygritte, you taught me that. That and more./ "Can you control them? Can you ensure as best you can that no violence and no stealing are to be done? That your people will man the Wall and flee not in the face of the enemy? That your men and mine and maybe the Watch as well can work together?"

Mance growled. "They won't like it, none of them will."

"They won't be stupid," Dalla called from her bed. "They'd know it's the only way to get to safety."

"And once they're there?" Jon questioned. "Once they realise that the Watch is a paltry force and that the North has for the past months wasted it's strength fighting the South and needs every last man they can get?"

Mance hesitated. "Is that how things are? Have you so few?"

Jon bowed his head. "My oldest brother was a fool. Not for fighting, not for going south. They say he married a woman when he was promised to another. That he sent the Iron Islands back their heir in good faith and that faith was torn apart. That he trusted a traitorous Lord and his bastard son, and paid for it in Lannister crimson blood. His and that of the North." Jon raised his head, eyes almost - almost - wet. "But he named me his heir. I will not make his mistakes, I will not trust freely, and I shall not take men into my lands if I do not have the utmost assurance that they shall do as they must!"

There was silence.

Mance eventually sighed. "My men, they want to stand atop the Wall. They want to cast down our enemy and take back our lands after. They want to live as they always have."

"Are they willing to live our way while they help cast down our enemy?"

Mance shrugged. "Some of them, no. Varamyr Sixskins, for example. He enjoys his lifestyle here too much. Others? Tormund would laugh it up fine. Harma Dogshead, not so much."

"And if some of the louder, less savoury personalities were to remain on this side of the Wall? Would the rest recognise the consequences of such feelings being expressed?"

"'Twould be unfair, I feel, to keep them on this side of the Wall without as much as a chance to be safe."

"But we could throw 'em back to this side easy enough if they wasn't behavin'," commented Val from Dalla's side.

"Would you?" Jon asked, glancing across the tent at Val and Mance. "Or would I have to?"

"They're my people, Snow. My punishments."

"That's Stark to you. And if you don't punish them right I'll do it myself and send you with them."

The eyes of kings met again. "We have an agreement," Mance told him.

Jon nodded solemnly, extended a hand. Mance took it. They shook.

"You best call your leaders," Jon said. "We'll need to start heading to the Nightfort before day's end."

"So soon?"

"I have a Kingdom to win," Jon stated, "and to defend. We need all the time we can get. Winter is coming, fast."

The two exited the tent side-by-side.

* * *

The waiting men outside were not listening in. Kennet might have tried, but Tormund and Mandon were so far somehow getting along famously - and loudly - in between Kennet and Sixskins on the log they'd sat on.

Sixskins' ice bear had turned up, and one of the wolves had left; hunting, Kennet presumed. The shadowcat, meanwhile, was staring at the skinchanger almost predatorily, occasionally baring it's teeth a little between it's lips. Varamyr seemed to notice, though it was behind him, and he certainly appeared to be on edge about something, shuffling in his seat, clutching the wolf's fur, and glancing at Kennet warily and furiously.

The shadowcat had begun to growl at Sixskins when the Kings exited the tent.

"Keep that beast under control if it's staying near us, Sixskins," Mance Raydar stated, "or I'll kill it myself."

Sixskins flashed an angry glare towards Kennet for some reason, spinning to look at the beast immediately before turning to Mance. "Shadowcats are extremely independent creatures, Raydar. This one has always resented my control and would happily abandon me and kill you all if it could. But now it's almost broken free, and it wants to kill me, after this King in the North of yours has brought a shadowcat warg into this camp!" Sixskins whirled towards Kennet. "I should have your head!"

Beside him, the wolf growled, and from somewhere behind Kennet the ice bear shuffled and snorted. The young man 's hands fell to his blades as he stood. "You won't," he said, "unless my King so commands."

"Your _King_ has no power here," Sixskins spat. Another movement from the bear caused Kennet to glance behind him, even as the wolf's growling reached a new level. It was massive, white, snarling, and just three metres away.

Kennet drew Tooth and Claw.

The wolf leapt.

An underarm swing landed the point of Claw under it's chin, and it's own momentum propelled it further onto the blade even as it yelped in pain. Kennet half-turned as the wolf met it's death, turning Tooth in the other direction in an attempt to stave off the ice bear.

The bear had moved slightly slower, which allowed Kennet to yank Claw free and face it with a swing from the longer sword, which made it pause in it's stride and instead make a swipe at the blade itself, which drew blood but was knocked from Kennet's hand to the snow.

As the bear's weight fell back onto it's newly injured paw it flinched and shuffled it's weight to the other paw, snarling in pain. That was the moment Kennet took to act, lunging forwards with Tooth and plunging the short blade into it's eye. He released the handle and stepped back, breathing a sigh of relief, but the bear it it's flailing lurched forwards, swinging a heavy paw at Kennet's head.

A weight crashed into his side, knocking him down and away from the bear as it collapsed into the space he'd just occupied with a painful grunt.

And Kennet gazed up at the shadowcat that had saved him.


	15. The Flight of the Raven

**Okay, I've been a bit crap recently. I haven't replied to reviews, or to PMs, and I haven't written as much of the story as I could have. (Okay, I've needed to revise a lot and I still need to revise a lot, but I still could have done something.) And I'm really really sorry for all of that (and to one person in particular, I'm sorry, my guilt at not saying anything made me afraid of saying anything and it kept going like that in a vicious cycle.) So yeah, apologies.**

**Oh, but at least there's a chapter now! (I did borrow some stuff from the book, but not much, and it ends up going in a very different direction, so... Enjoy!)**

* * *

The next day, they arrived at the Nightfort. In the intermediate period, Varamyr Sixskins' corpse had been burnt, as had the ice bear and the wolf. The other two wolves were missing, and the eagle had flown southwards, past the Wall and out of sight.

Though Kennet hadn't seen Sixskins' death, as he was preoccupied with the wolf and bear, he knew that the shadowcat had crushed his neck and he'd bled out whilst he choked to death. It had remained, unlike the other animals; perhaps unsurprising, given what Sixskins had claimed over it's behaviour. It indeed stayed in Kennet's vicinity, in fact for that entire day, before leaving to hunt during the night they spent outside the Nightfort.

On the morrow, it returned. Kennet had wondered if he should name it at some point, as well as whether or not it would manage to get through the Nightfort's tunnel entrance. One of those problems solved itself brilliantly. Shadowcats are renowned climbers, and skilled. It is said they can scale a cliff face in the dark and cling to rocks by the tips of their claws if they must.

No, the direwolf she brought back with her would prove to be the problem on the steep steps of the Nightfort. She, the shadowcat, had slunk into camp with bloody

jaws and chin raised, while he, Ghost, had bounded ahead to the King's side. Kennet was initially unnerved at the sight of what appeared to be a mixture of the wolf and ice bear he'd killed the previous day - massive and white, but wolf in form - but he adjusted soon enough to the silent presence of the wolf; the silent presence of the cat on the edge of his consciousness was stranger.

A name he still couldn't devise, but he would keep thinking.

At the Nightfort, the host sent half its warriors through first, to garrison the fortress and prepare it for the arrival of the others. Kings Mance and Jon remained North of the Wall to determine terms, plans, and times. Tormund Giantsbane and Ser Mandon were arranging the Wildlings on the other side; designating space for the women and children and those that wouldn't fight, setting up camps for those who would, and salvaging as many supplies as they could from the storage rooms within the Wall; cloaks, weapons, and not much else was the final inventory. It was determined that those who remained would have to send parties out both North and South before sunset each day, in order to retain adequate supplies.

It was also suggested that they should repopulate the Gift and the New Gift. Unfortunately, and predictably, very few of them knew anything about farming, which was an issue that would need to be readdressed. A hundred thousand of the Free Folk couldn't survive off hunter-gathering for long in the South, particularly not without relapsing into raiding. Unfortunately, as Jon Stark was heard to remark, "Winter is coming, a time when crops do not grow readily and that which is sown is not reaped. Trades and occupations for coin and thus for food must be found."

King Jon made good use of the ravens they'd procured at Castle Black. They left for every corner of the North not under Ironborn or Bolton control, announcing in their messages that the King in the North, Jon Stark, Eddard Stark's son and legitimised heir to Robb Stark, and the King beyond the Wall were allies and had come South of the Wall with the Wildling Army. They requested that some stores of grain and craftsmen be sent to the Nightfort, to feed and teach the Wildlings who had fled South of the Wall in order to allow them to survive the Winter without resorting to raiding towns and villages under the King's protection.

Messages were also sent to Castle Black, the Shadow Tower, and Eastwatch-by-the-sea, stating that unless the Night's Watch wished to be eradicated, they would leave the Wildlings in peace at the Nightfort and on the Gift, by the command of the King in the North and the King beyond the Wall.

One more message had been sent, to White Harbour, stating that the King in the North, Jon Stark, legitimised heir of Robb Stark, was rallying troops and men, and across the North Lords and smallfolk were rising to his cause as even the Wildlings had. It threatened surrender and fealty or the eradication of the Manderly line.

It told Lord Wyman that his trust had not been misplaced, and that he should immediately send the news on to King's Landing accompanied by reports of rumours and traitors among his ranks and his lands. After all, that was as much as any other true Lannister bannerman might feel obliged to do.

His letter found it's way into King's Landing a week later, the day before King Joffrey was to be married, and the fate of Westeros was well and truly changed.

* * *

The raven had arrived the previous evening, but the Maester had been elsewhere, and the message not read until the morrow, at which point it was almost impossible to change the course of that day. But it changed, that was certain.

* * *

In the Queen's Ballroom, they broke their fast. "Nothing like a hearty breakfast to whet now's appetite for the seventy-seven-course feast to follow," Tyrion commented as their plates were filled. Sansa noticed, however, that he scarce touched his food, though he drank several cups of wine. She herself did little more than nibble at fruit and fish and honeycakes during the meal.

When the food had been cleared, the Queen presented Joffrey with the wife's cloak he would drape over Margaery's shoulders. "It is the cloak I donned when Robert took me for his Queen, the same cloak my mother Lady Joanna wore when wed to my lord father." Sansa thought it threadbare.

Then it was time for gifts, as was custom in the Reach; gifts to the couple were given the day after the wedding, gifts to the separate persons on the day of the wedding.

Joffrey received many fine gifts; a great bow, a pair of riding boots, a jousting saddle, a scorpion brooch, silver spurs, a tourney pavilion, and a model of a war galley, before Tyrion presented him with their own gift; /Lives of Four Kings./ Leather-bound and brilliantly illuminated. The King leafed through it without interest. "And what is this, Uncle?"

_A book_. Sansa wondered if Joffrey moved those fat wormy lips of his when he read.

"Grand Maester Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good," her small husband answered./"A book every King should read, Your Grace," said Ser Kevan Lannister.

"My Father had no time for books." Joffrey shoved the time across the table. "If you read less, Uncle Imp, perhaps Lady Sansa would have a baby in her belly by now." He laughed... and when the King laughs, the court laughs with him. Don't be sad, Sansa, once I've gotten Queen Margaery with child I'll visit your bedchamber and show my little uncle how it's done."

Sansa reddened. She glanced nervously at Tyrion, but he filled his mouth with wine over words and she was relieved.

Lord Tyrell then presented his gift; a seven-faced chalice, decorated for each of Joffrey's seven Kingdoms. A lion of ruby, an emerald rose, an onyx stag, a silver trout, blue jade falcon, opal sun, and pearl direwolf.

"A splendid cup," Joffrey remarked, as the Grand Maester stumbled through the Ballroom doors. "But we'll need to chip the wolf off and put a squid in it's place, I think."

"Your Grace, I fear not," Pycelle declared, out of breath. "Grave tidings have arrived from the North. Lord Wyman Manderly sends word." He staggered towards the Lannisters' positions at the head of the table, where Lord Tywin stood and relieved him of the small parchments he clutched.

The room waited in tense silence as the Hand of the King read each message.

Tywin Lannister looked up, a scowl on his face. "The wedding is postponed," he declared, sparking outraged whisperings amongst the guests. "The remaining gifts shall be given at a later date. Today, the Small Council must gather to discuss this."

Tywin Lannister was not a hasty man. _Why such an urgent meeting? Why immediate?_

"Lord Hand," Joffrey said, voice cutting through all other discussion. "What does it say?"

_Even he doesn't immediately contradict Tywin,_ Sansa thought, _the King matters not when the Hand is in control_.

Tywin turned his gaze on his grandson. "There is a new King in the North."

"That wasteland?" Cersei asked. "The Boltons are the Wardens of the North, and I am sure they shall manage to deal with this usurper King without our immediate assistance."

"No Northman will rally to those who betrayed their King now that they have another choice!" Tywin growled. "Especially when this choice is undoubtedly a Stark! Lord Eddard's bastard has been legitimised as the last act of Robb Stark's reign and declared his heir. Jon Stark is the King in the North and we have war on our hands. The Small Council must meet now."

He strode from the room, followed by the lords and ladies of the council; Lords Tyrell and Redwyne, Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, who had sprung from some corner or other, Prince Oberyn, and Tyrion, who said farewell to Sansa, though she didn't pay attention to the words and merely nodded before he left.

_Jon? King in the North? _The solemn boy her siblings had loved, who she had always kept at a distance, out of reach, was reclaiming the kingdom her brothers had died for. The quiet boy with the quiet wolf had outlived all their siblings - if Arya was as dead as she seemed - except her. But she'd hardly even thought of him since he left to join the Watch. And now he was king.

_How did that happen? _she wondered, and then, /Does he think of me, his last sister?/ He probably didn't. He and Arya had been thick as thieves, and she had hardly spoken to him since she learnt what the word "bastard" meant.

And now he was King in the North and she was prisoner in the South. _How low I have fallen_. The men of the North were probably rallying to him, the boy who had their father's face, while she who had her mother's was hated and japed at for it.

She returned to her chambers quietly amidst the painful whispers of "Eddard Stark" and "Robb Stark" and "Ashara Dayne" and "Snow," and once there she dismissed her handmaidens. Then, she wept, wept for lost family and lost home and lost chances, so many lost chances.

* * *

**Yep. I may have just saved Joffrey. Unfortunately, at this point, that's just an unfortunate side-effect of one of the main things I wanted to do here... Save Tywin and see what happens.**

**Yeah, maybe that's not much better for some of you, but he's my second favourite character. And he's awesome. And it adds to the plot.**

**Look at it this way; in canon, he was killed by his own flesh and blood; maybe, this time, I'll give Fire and Blood a shot at him!**

**Oh yeah, and I'm saving Oberyn too. And now Ser Robert Strong may no longer exist. So that's good too.**

**Anyway... Hope you enjoyed the chapter**


	16. A Dream of A Cat

**Hello! A slightly more prompt update this time, I hope, and with any luck an entertaining one! Not much more to say, so; here it is!**

* * *

The Wildlings under Mandon and Tormund settled into the Nightfort well. It was said to have once been capable of holding twenty thousand within its walls - this was quickly proven false and replaced with a more accurate number at forty... Counting those who slept in the stables with little space and less comfort, as well as those who lined the halls at night. A town of tents had sprung up around the black fortress; there, for now, stayed the remaining forty thousand or so Wildlings, bar twenty thousand who has passed that place and headed South alongside Mance Raydar, Jon Stark, and Kennet.

The giants who had managed to climb the stair at the Nightfort and were willing to leave their mammoths behind, which was forty-two out of eighty or so, were also heading south; there were mayhaps a hundred skinchangers of all kinds with the group as well.

Three of them, Utho, Kati, and Farryn, were also shadowcat wargs. Utho was a small man, a head below Kennet in height, with fair hair, but his shadowcat was a magnificent, immense creature, and proud. He was known as Night.

Kati was a black-haired and fierce spearwife with a cruel glare and large breasts. Her shadowcat was smallest and undoubtedly fiercest; she was simply known as Claw.

Farryn was a young woman, still half a girl, and sweet... sweet as any Wildling could be. She was not overly violent and took very little offence even to the odd demeaning comment from the Wildling men. Kennet suspected that perhaps her shadowcat - he had no name and a short temper - did so for her.

Kennet spent time with them on the march, rather than at the head of the horde with Jon and Mance. He was more comfortable away from the attention, and could learn to establish a bond with the shadowcat he had not yet named.

She was smaller than Night and slightly larger than the other unnamed cat. She was not so fierce as Claw, not so proud as Night, and not so reactive as Farryn's shadowcat. But that was not to say that she did not possess these attributes; she fought viciously when she had to, she held her head high at almost all times, and she would defend him vigorously. She seemed calmer, and yet she possessed an indomitable steeliness within her.

On occasion, he believed he could sense her thoughts; relief at making a kill, displeasure with the stench of the camp, and so on. However, he was yet to dream in her skin, which should be the next stage.

The army travelled by the Kingsroad, heading for Winterfell. None yet knew whether the Boltons had made it into the North before Moat Cailin had been shut, or even if Moat Cailin had been shut; very few ravens were trained to travel to the abandoned Nightfort, after all. However, Winterfell was the only realistic place to rule the North from, and the place Bolton would most likely head for. Sacked or not, it would house many troops and hold out against more.

Whether or not the Dreadfort was important was debatable. Kennet for one would not mourn it if it fell, but most certainly it was not required to; unless the Boltons were to retreat there, or held a particularly strong force there, which best estimates suggested they didn't. Winterfell it would be.

King Jon had decided to remain with the Wildlings throughout their time in the North, not due to trust but mistrust. Though they respected him, and there was little dissent within the camp, he and Kennet both feared that opposition and the potential to disobey orders might develop were Jon to be elsewhere, and control would be vital in the potential integration of the Free Folk into the lands of the kneelers they despised so much.

They met few travellers on the road. By this point, with Winter upon them and snowfall regular, few Northerners would be unprepared enough for the coming season that they had urgent business afoot and were forced to travel.

A week's journey put them beside Long Lake. Shortly before nightfall that day, a Clansman from the mountains who had been dispatched to try to find the King at the Wall arrived with information; Deepwood Motte had been recaptured by the Mormonts and the Mountain Clans, who were now heading for Winterfell through the Wolfswood. He had left six days ago, and made good time through the speed of his horse and the relative ease of the terrain he'd covered. He estimated that the Clansmen and Mormonts, travelling as they were through the wood and with about four thousand men, would take another six days or so to reach Winterfell if conditions remained good, while they and the Wildlings were about eight days from Winterfell.

That night, Kennet dreamed.

_Her eyes were sharp, her ears sharper, and her nose was picking up a world of smells in the blackness of the night. The soft tracks which lined the plain's grassy tussocks had a thin cover of snow, largely undisturbed, and she prowled over it smoothly, sniffing and searching for tracks of prey._

_She lifted her head and scented the air, catching little more that a coldness and the faint smell of men and horses during a short lull in the wind. She was downwind from her companion's group, then, and the hunting had been bad all night. Hardly a creature was moving; she turned towards the prevalent wind, ready to head back, and a new gust entered her nostrils._

_She stiffened. The scent of horse was too strong. There were few and fewer with her companion, but the scent now almost overwhelmed that of men. There was no smell of old-skins that the men covered themselves with, no smell of females of that species, and no scent of the larger-men at all, those who had a highly distinctive smell to them. She was not scenting her companion's pack._

_She paced closer, suspicious and hidden by the dark and the snow which seemed to mix on her pelt. There was no water of the lake by which her companion was staying near, in fact, she could faintly sense his presence in the opposite direction. These men she certainly did not know._

_She neared the camp silently. Not she could see it and hear it, too; fires lit up the night sky and the chants and songs of men were repeated after a woman's voice began them. Closer and closer she stalked, her curiosity driving her towards where she could now see the human path the men had travelled by._

_She passed the horses easily; they did not notice the shadows of the night unless they pounced. She saw a fire ahead, and stalked the edges of the circle men sat around it._

_She saw a woman in red and a banner of the same, saw shimmering metal on the men and one piece in particular flickering with light, saw the lady begin to glance her way, and melted away into the darkness again. She would return to her companion's side, where it was safer for both of them, by morning._

Kennet woke breathing deep through clenched teeth. The hour was late. None were awake, it seemed, when he opened the flap of his tent and peered out, but he could surely no longer sleepHe made a snap decision. Dressing quickly, he grabbed a cloak, pulled his boots on, and strode out of the tent. He wasn't far from Jon's tent at all, twenty paces if that, and Kennet was soon knocking on the tent post impatiently.

He heard movement, and the flap was yanked open sharply, revealing Jon Stark clutching a dagger. They each stared confused at the other, before Jon lowered the knife and beckoned Kennet in.

It was a relatively small tent, as they went; little room for more than a bed and a table with three chairs, on which they sat silently, Kennet pausing for thought as Jon properly awoke. A lantern hung from the ceiling. Ghost slumbered beside the bed.

"I had a dream," Kennet began, "but no ordinary one. Important."

Jon blinked slowly, still tired, before his gaze sharpened. "You were in the cat."

"Yes."

"Where?"

Kennet thought for a second. "It was on the road, but it must have been somewhere behind us; it was past the lake, and trees lie ahead of us now, but this place was a rather open plain, so maybe a quarter of a day's ride behind us."

"And this is important why?"

"There were men there; not Wildlings, they didn't smell the same, and they had horses; lots of them."

"A cavalry detachment?" Jon asked himself quietly. "To the best of my knowledge there is no such force in the North aligned with us, let alone this far north. Were there any other details? How many, how well armed, how were they dressed?"

"There was steel, lots of it. She hasn't the best capacity or inclination for counting, I'm afraid, but there were a lot of them circling a fire and chanting after what a woman dressed in red said. Beyond that, no more details."

Jon frowned. "That sounds like no Northerners I know of."

Kennet nodded. "Enemies or friends?"

"We'll see about that tomorrow, I suppose," Jon said. "But certainly not known, so we needs must be cautious."

Kennet nodded. "Half a day's ride... If we wait to meet them we'll essentially lose a day's travel to Winterfell. And we'll be arriving after the Mountain Clans as it is. We don't want to lose time."

Jon nodded, reaching for and unfurling a map onto the table. He placed four rocks on the edges to hold it down. "We cannot afford to lose time travelling to Winterfell. Bolton may be there already, or he may not; either way, the sooner we arrive, the sooner we retake it. Have we any bird-wargs?"

"About twenty," Kenent confirmed.

Jon nodded. "They can scout out these men, tell us of their doings, while we keep heading South. The treeline is not far; I imagine we can reach it in an hour or so and prepare a potential defence from there. Cavalry don't do well in foliage, and nor do most attackers. If we weather the first charge and reply with our own, giants at the head and infantry following, with four or five good archers shooting at their leaders, whatever force this is will fall."

"And if they're allies?"

"We negotiate first, of course, in both scenarios."

Kenned frowned. "And what of Winterfell and the mountain clansmen?"

Jon grinned. "I was thinking of this problem before sleeping, and I believe I have a solution. You must ride ahead and meet them. If Winterfell is empty, take it and defend it until we arrive."

Kennet blinked slowly. "You mean me to take control of four or five thousand men?"

"I trust you to do so," Jon said. "More than I would Mance at any rate, and more than any of these lords I've never met commanding armies I've never seen." He grinned slightly. "For all intents and purposes, Kennet, you're Hand of the King in the North."

"I would not leave you in the middle of a Wildling army alone," Kennet warned."

"They respect strength," King Jon Stark said. "I shall win them a battle if tomorrow does not end peacefully. And I have saved them from what lies beyond the Wall. They will respect me, and thus, they shall not betray me."

"I do not like it," Kennet told him, "but I shall leave if I must."

"Good. Do so." Jon stood. "I needs must speak with Mance on the plans for tomorrow."

"Will you require your Hand, my King?" Kennet asked jokingly as he stood.

"I require my Hand to saddle his horse," Jon said, placing a hand on Kennet's shoulder. "We cannot lose any more time. Your path will be lit enough by moonlight until dawn."

"My King... I shall, of course, but - what of the cat?"

Jon glanced to Ghost. "Bonded animals are loyal. She'll find her way; she's a tough one, and she's got spirit."

Kennet nodded, bowing. "I take my leave, Your Grace," he said, before turning and exiting.

The horizon was just beginning to lighten when Kennet was ready. Tor's saddlebags bulged, his swords were on his hips, and there was food in his stomach. He patted the neck of the grey garron for luck, glanced to the crescent moon above and the encampment below, and set off into the night.


	17. Drinking with Company

**Okay, this is the next chapter. Not much important stuff happens plotwise, for example the issue of who exactly the cavalry force from last chapter are and what happened when Jon met them is not covered. However, for Kennet, this is important. This is the first task his King has set him in any official capcity and individual responsibility and his choices in carrying it out. As such, I like it, and I find it fitting of Kennet's style.**

**Also, well, there's a revelation of sorts at the end. It's something I don't think I've seen in OCs in this section before and certainly hardly ever if not never in main characters for fantasy series fitting into the angle I'm taking on this, and I'll be interested to hear your responses and see how well this choice goes down.**

**I hope you like the chapter!**

* * *

For two and a half days Kennet followed the road south. It was at that point that the road turned away to avoid the rises and falls of the moorland which now lay between Kennet and Winterfell, but he took the shorter route over the turf and hillocks, heading roughly south-south-east and judging directions by the stars.

He enjoyed the next couple of days of riding. The landscapes were vast and open, Tor was climbing even the steeper ridges strongly, and the weather was warmer than he'd expected. It was two and a half days of such riding before he sighted Winterfell.

He had experienced just one dream of the cat in that period; hunting and catching a hare in the forest, at nightfall on the second day. Beyond that, there was nothing. He didn't know if he should be happy that it seemed to be going in the right direction - there had been a glimpse of the Long Lake in the dream - or unhappy that the bond had not progressed further.

Winterfell was the finest castle Kennet had ever seen. A great sprawling thing, it grew - or seemed to - from the very landscape, as much a part of the North as the rock it was made upon. Since he'd seen it last, it had been sacked by the Greyjoys and then the Bolton Bastard, but it did not look weaker for it. No, a tower or two was more crumbled than previously, and mayhaps some of the stone was blackened, but Winterfell did not look as one would imagine a sacked castle to look. It was whole. It was strong.

Also, if only from the look of it, it remained empty. There were no banners, there was no smoke.

Ready for the claiming.

The Boltons were somewhere to the south, the mountain clans and Mormonts to the west. Kennet had, essentially, two options. Wait at Winterfell and see who turned up, or seek out the men he didn't know in the woods he didn't know. Neither option appealed to him much.

The day was in its final stages; the sun near the horizon as its light lost its grip on the eastern reaches of the skyline. Kennet would soon need to bed down for the night; it was then that he remembered the winter's town.

There was an inn there; he could sleep, ask after information on the Boltons and on the clansmen and on Winterfell, and stock up on supplies. Spreading the news of King Jon's legitimisation would also be beneficial; and, perhaps, explaining about the Wildlings. He could make a proper decision on what course of action to take once he had information on Bolton's movements or lack thereof.

He realised that Tor had come to a halt on the last rise they'd crested, and stroked the garron's neck lightly. "Not far now," Kennet said, leaning forwards, and Tor began to move again. "We're headed for a nice warm stable."

The tired horse made it. Five days of travel had worn him out, and the hay and water the Smoking Log provided was much appreciated. Kennet himself was delighted to partake in a warm meal and a small mug of ale.

He questioned the innkeeper about the Boltons, and received news that Roose had passed Moat Cailin thanks to his bastard's trickery; apparently Ramsay had got wind of something unusual going on and rushed to open the Moat, killing the Ironborn there and allowing his father through. There was said to be a bride for Ramsay on the way from the capital, and they were awaiting this arrival at Barrowton, where the Dustins had reluctantly given Roose their hospitality and barred Ramsay from their keep.

"Any idea what Ramsay got wind of? Which made him bolt to his father?" Kennet asked.

The barman shrugged, but another patron commented loudly that it "Coulda been any o' a dozen stories 'e 'eard. Might be 'e 'eard of a giant pale wolf that leapt over the Wall, or a Stark bastard with a Wildlin' army comin' for 'im."

"Ah now, but that one's true," Kennet told him in the relative silence that followed. "Only he's not a bastard anymore. Before his death, King Robb legitimised him, and now he's heading here, to Winterfell."

The silence in the inn was broken by a chorus of hopeful mutterings, and, from the barman, a hesitant "How do you know that?"

Kennet gave a simple explanation; he had been at the Twins when the declaration was made, had carried the message north to the King by sea, and had ridden south along with the Wildlings he'd enlisted as support, before being sent ahead as a messenger and to try to hold Winterfell while the King investigated the unknown army which followed them.

He then checked again that there was no news of the Boltons heading northwards, relaxed at the news, and asked if the next day someone who knew the woods well could help him find the clansmen who were heading on their way to reinforce Winterfell.

A man volunteered to introduce him to a forester friend of his, to which Kennet agreed, before retiring for the night. The innkeeper insisted on giving him the room for free, and Kennet didn't protest. If anything, he was simply too tired to do so.

* * *

The next day, he set out with the woodsman into the Wolfswood. They both rode, Kennet on Tor, Olyvar, the woodsman, on a brown horse usually used for hauling logs, and they headed towards Deepwood Motte, in the expectation of meeting those from it.

The Wolfswood was somewhat a darker wood than Kennet was used to. The canopy was denser than he liked, with more undergrowth, but fortunately not so dense as to be impassable by supply wagons, just so dense that manoeuvrability would be an issue. It seemed to be grown on uneven ground, too; riding was a challenge. However, Olyvar assured him they were both making good time and heading the right way.

Unfortunately, it was almost a full day's travel before they heard or saw so much as an indication of where the men they searched for would be. Voices were heard ahead of them, ringing through the trees. Olyvar and Kennet glanced at one another, nodded, and spurred the horses onwards.

They rounded trees, ducked branches, and went faster than might be advisable in such conditions, but they made it there in one piece, in time to skid ungracefully almost straight into an unlit campfire and the man who was lighting it.

A circle of men surrounded them, clad warmly, and others were now visible in groups spread out behind doing similar things; lighting fires, pitching tents, and staring at the newcomers with curiosity and suspicion.

"You are the men who retook Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn and who head now to Winterfell?" Kennet called loudly. Upon receiving several grunts of confirmation, he continued, "I needs must speak to your commanders."

A man stood, a large axe in hand. "Who are you, then? And why d'you want to see them?"

"My name is Kennet, and I was sent by the King in the North, Jon Stark."

"I'll take you there," the man said, "and don't you try anything." Kennet nodded, ignoring the threat for what it was - bluster.

He was led a short distance, to where a large tent was pitched in a clearing of sorts. A pair of guards stood outside it, the bear of Mormont on the shield of one and a bucket on the other.

The man announced that there was a visitor while Kennet dismounted, asked Olyvar to not leave during the night and make his presence known to Kennet it the morning, and hitched Tor to a nearby tree.

In the tent Kennet first observed the table which almost spanned its entire length, upon which maps were strewn, second noted the woman who was, judging by her armour and the sigil it bore, a Mormont, and third saw the mountain chiefs who filled the other places at the table, about eight of them, mainly bearded and thin-face

"Greetings," Kennet told them. _I must be assertive and make a good showing of myself if I am to lead them to Winterfell and at Winterfell._ "I am Kennet of House Resquin, adviser and ally of the King in the North, Jon Stark. He is heading for Winterfell, but has been delayed on the path and directed me to ride ahead, find yourselves and your troops, and reclaim and defend Winterfell."

"Have you any proof?" questioned the Mormont woman.

"That I am an ally?" Kennet asked. She nodded. "I helped to devise the plan which led to your capture of Deepwood Motte, Lady...?"

"Alysane Mormont.

"Lady Alysane. I was there as the letter I presume you received from White Harbour was written. It informed you that a soldier who had escaped the Twins had brought a Royal Act to White Harbour declaring Jon Stark legitimate heir, that he was now to be King, and that hope was not lost for the North; you could rally the mountain clans and take Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn. I was that soldier, and I came up with that plan."

She paused, before nodding. "I don't suppose there's any other way you could've known that, so it must be true. Take a seat." Kennet strode down the tent and did so, slipping into a gap just to Alysane's left.

"How went the attack on Deepwood Motte?" he asked, glancing around the table.

"Well," came Alysane's reply.

"Well? We slaughtered the Ironborn, captured their ships, and retook the keep! We did better than well!" A chieftain cried, the table cheering in support.

"Slaughtered?" asked Kennet. "Perhaps these particular men have reaped the rewards of the discord they've sown throughout our lands, then."

"Not enough," Lady Alysane told him. "More than the blood of these Ironborn is needed to repay the deaths of the Stark boys. Greyjoy blood is needed, but Asha was away from Deepwood Motte, at one of their bloody islands, and though we have set a trap for her in the hands of the Glovers, in case she returns. But more than that, I want the blood of Theon Greyjoy, he who shall be held accountable for the deaths of all the Stark boys and Lady Catelyn too; and more than that, he lost us the war."

"The war is not over, Lady Alysane," Kennet told her, "not when those of us who still draw breath believe in it and fight it. We still have a King in the North."

"We still have a King," she acknowledged, "but we have lost many brothers, sisters, and soldiers since this war began."

"We have the Wildlings now," Kennet said.

Lady Alysane's head turned towards him sharply, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"There is an army of twenty thousand Wildlings heading down the Kingsroad, under the command of both Mance Raydar and Jon Stark. An alliance had been formed; the Wildlings shall guard the Wall and the North, and the Wall shall guard the Wildlings."

"Guard them from what?"

"From the Others. From the White Walkers. From the dead they've resurrected, their wights. From the threat that unified a hundred thousand Wildlings into flight towards the Wall, the threat that the Wall was built to hold out."

"Children's tales!" came a chortle from down the table.

"And you are?" Kennet questioned

"The Norrey," came the response from the tall, thickly bearded man three places to Kennet's left.

"Well, Norrey," Kennet told him, "I've met these Wildlings. They aren't cowards. Oh, some might be, but most of them are tough as nails. And you would tell me that a hundred thousand such people fled to the Wall to escape children's tales they were told?" This gave the man pause. "Either the children's tales are false, Norrey, or there is another great threat across the Wall, trying to kill Wildlings and Rangers alike. I'd prefer to believe that the children's tales are true."

"An' why's that?" a Clansman sitting across from Kennet asked.

"Because in the children's tales, everything turns out alright in the end. If not the Others, I dread to think what might be coming for us."

There was a pause.

"You've given us a lot to think about," Alysane Mormont said. "We must sleep on this news, I fear, and travel on as fast as we can to Winterfell on the morrow."

Kennet nodded. "Olyvar, the man who rode here with me, is a woodsman and knows the area well. He can help direct us to Winterfell by the shortest route."

"Have you a tent?" Alysane questioned.

"I have, with my horse."

"He can share with you, then," she said, to which Kennet nodded. " You may go," Lady Mormont told the tent on a whole. The clansmen stood and left, one by one. Kennet remained.

"My Lady?" he asked, gently.

"Yes?"

"I was sorry to hear of your sister's death. She was an able commander and a good woman."

"You rode under her?"

"I drank with those who did, and they spoke highly of her ability. It was only after many of the other Karstark men left the army that I did so, though; most of my drinking companions left with them, and I haven't drank much at all since. That was why I was picked for guard duty during the Wedding."

Alysane nodded, staring at a flagon she gripped tightly in her right hand. "Who did you ride under?"

"Robin Flint," Kennet sighed, "he who I later discovered was my half-brother."

Alysane nodded, an raised her flagon. "A toast to dead siblings!"

"I would, my lady, but I fear I have no drink to raise." Her response was to grab a flagon from a small table he hadn't previously noticed and fill it from the barrel which lay under the smaller table.

She passed it to him, and they raised their drinks. "To dead siblings," they toasted, and drank. It was a strong ale, and Kennet choked on it as it went down. Alysane laughed.

It seemed only natural to keep drinking as she did, though she drank more than he, who had never held liquor particularly well. The pair toasted to many more things as the night went on, from the dead to the living to the Starks to the Twins and how they wished to burn them down and throw the ashes in the river.

All the while, they became more and more inebriated. "I love you," she declared, after removing her leather armour, this harsh woman of the North. "I love you, Kenent!"

At this point, he distinctly remembered, Kennet took her flagon from her. "Lady," he told her, "Kennet is my name, not Kenent."

She stared up at him groggily. Somehow, she was sitting on the floor. It seemed funny. "Why?"

He shrugged and the world shifted around him. "Ask Father."

She blinked slowly. "My father was a bear. There are a lot of bears at home, but most of them look like you!" She laughed, and leant towards him, whispering. "Not real bears. Man-bears. Men really, but we call them bears. Do you want to be a bear?"

"I... No, my lady." He shook his head, and the world shook dauntingly. He was oddly scared, and breathing deeply.

"Am I a bad mother? Is that why?" She asked. "I left Jeor and Lysa at Bear Island. Am I bad? The Island of bears, bears, bears. Do you want to be a bear?" She reached for him, but he pushed her hand away. He wobbled as he did so and felt like falling but stood still at the same time.

"No, my lady. I cannot," he told her. He took her arm, led her to the back of the tent where a smaller section she slept in was separated from the rest by a wall of fabric, and laid her on the mattress. "Goodnight, Lady Alysane."

"Why?"she asked, blinking up at him like a child.

"Because - I - I -..." Kennet trailed off. What would it hurt? She was drunk far more than he was, she wouldn't remember anything either of them said. "I don't know why, my lady, but it's not your fault. I prefer the company of men."

She stared uncomprehending. "You won't be a bear for me?"

He shook his head, and left the tent while she lay down and pulled up a blanket, shivering against the cold and mind racing with intoxication.

After somehow putting up his tent, Kennet fell asleep in much the same manner.


	18. The Heart

**Okay, this is a milestone. Not much of one, but... 40,000 words is the cut-off point where a novella becomes a novel. And this book just became a novel. It'll never be published, it's not critically acclaimed - what am I saying? It's faced the criticism of its reading public and come out largely positive, and for that I thank you. All of you. Favouriters, followers, reviewers, and those who have put this fic into your collections, and everyone who's ever read any of it; Thank you.**

**And thank you for waiting, both patiently and impatiently. Those who have reviewed saying that you want me to keep going, you have made me do so. My A-Levels are over now. I have time again. The last exam was on Tuesday. Now I just have to wait for the results and keep my fingers crossed. Now, there's a chapter, and I have got it out for you as soon as I could. To those who did not review, but thought of the fic every now and then but hoped it would continue, I am sorry that I have kept you waiting. This has happened to me too many times for me to not mean this with full sincerity; I didn't mean to make you wait.**

**To those who will, or have, read this sporadically and with only moderate interest... I say this; Thanks for getting my view count up, guys. Hopefully I've put smiles on your faces in return, however brief.**

**Oh, and finally, to Jajacob; my iPod finally died a death and I forgot my password, which is why I haven't been responding at all; also, exams and stuff caused some severe time delays. Sorry, sorry, and for the third time, sorry. I hope this chapter makes up for it at least in part.**

**Speaking of which; **

**Chapter Eighteen: The Heart.**

* * *

Alysanne Mormont sat next to Kennet the next morning, as camp was packed up around them. Kennet had packed his tent into Tor's saddlebags a few minutes previously, and would have saddled the horse by now had Alysanne not wished to speak.

And speak she did. Eventually.

Her head was bowed. "I must apologise for last night, Kennet. I was drunk and lonely, and I miss my home, but my actions were uncalled for."

"You took no untoward actions, my lady; which I must say is quite an achievement given how much you'd drunk at the time."

A grin flickered onto Alysanne's face, a small, wry thing. "I can hold my liquor. It's no excuse. My insecurities made me question you about things I should not have, or, rather, interrogate you."

"By my limited experience, a few friendly questions hardly constitutes an interrogation. I told you nothing I did not wish you to know." Kennet smiled sadly. "Truth be told, I'm just glad somebody else finally knows."

"You've never told anyone?" Kennet shook his head. "Family? Friends? Lovers?"

"None, one, and every one I've ever had. By which I mean, as it happens, none again." Kennet's laugh was bitter. "You're the one." He tilted his head. "Well, I suppose the cat probably knows."

Alysanne frowned. "The cat?"

Kennet nodded. "I suppose I forgot to tell you; I'm a shadowcat warg. I suppose it could be a clue that she's female; most of the other wargs I've met are the same gender as their animal."

"Most?"

"There's Farryn, another shadowcat warg. And there was a bird warg of some kind... I never met many of the Wildlings, though. But yes, the majority of the wargs are the same gender as their animal. Utho, Kati, even King Jon and that great direwolf of his, Ghost. King Robb was too, I suppose."

Alysanne nodded slowly. "Does she have a name, this shadowcat?"

Kennet shrugged. "I've been trying to come up with one that suits her, but no luck..."

She nodded, and abruptly changed the subject. "What's King Jon like?"

Kennet thought for a second. "Fair. He gave the Wildllings a chance to come through the Wall, and he rewards loyal service; he informally made him his Hand before I left. I'm not sure Kings in the North need them, though, but I appreciate the thought... He's decisive, strong. He's stood by his decisions, and he's determined; he'll fulfil his deal with the Wildlings and reunite the North, I'm convinced of it. And he's loyal, to his family and to his vows. He may have left the wall, but he intends to fulfil his vow and defend it nonetheless; with the power of the united North behind him."

Alysanne considered this for a few minutes. It was almost time to leave.

As Kennet was about to stand and saddle Tor, she spoke up.

"Is he rash?" Kennet turned to her. "Will he prove to be competent but rush into hasty personal decisions and tear our cause apart?"

Kennet looked into her eyes and saw the heart of the question. "He is not his brother. King Robb's rashness was his strength and was his speed, and was why he was succesful. King Jon is more solemn. He mourns a love he lost North of the Wall and shall not take another likely until the war is over. Robb's weaknesses were his haste and his idealism; Southern traits and Southern strengths both. Jon has more of their father in him, of the North."

"But what are his weaknesses? I wish to know what we are getting into this time."

"He has not the charisma of his brother, nor the experience of a veteran commander. But the second shall come, with time, and the first is not too great a pity for now. We know in our hearts what is needed. We need no inspiration now. We are driven. And now, my lady, we must motivate ourselves to mount up; the day awaits."

They rode side by side that day, the Lady of Bear Island and the heir to the poor lordship of a ruined tower. They spoke at length throughout the day, on matters of politics, court, warfare, tactics, and sieges, as well as food, ale, their pasts, their futures, and men. By the end of the ride, they had formed a strong friendship, which would be built upon in days to come, and four-fifths of the journey to Winterfell had been completed. Kennet slept well that night, confident that their journey was near completion, and dreamed of a place snug and warm and dark.

That night, it snowed heavily.

The canopy blocked most of the snow from reaching the floor, but not all. The frost slowed travel, the men were slower to rise and so the day's travel began later. The mood was dim, as was the light, though towards midday the snow began to melt and it seemed they were making fast progress.

Then it began to rain, and the snow on the ground and the trees turned to slush, and the light grew dimmer, and the mood darkened, though, in their furs and on their garrons, the Northerners ploughed on, and Olyvar the woodsman informed Kennet that by his estimations they were less than a mile from the castle about an hour past midday.

The forest became less dark. The trees thinned. A horizontal line of light became visible; the treeline, and when they exited it, Winterfell was a hundred metres before them and to the right. It looked as great as it ever had, to Kennet; the towers were whole, if blackened, though it was noted that where the North Gate should have been the gate was instead blackened and fallen.

"So many of our fragile hopes hinge around that castle, when even its gates fail to do so," Kennet remarked as they neared, at the head of the column.

Alysanne sighed. "Hope is by nature intangible, and so often spat upon and cast aside by physical things. But Winterfell is the heart of the North and has been for thousands of years. It is not hope, but faith in the hearts of the gods and men of the North that tells me this; Winterfell shall stand tall for as long as winters chill the earth and babes cry in their beds. Should all else burn in fire and drown in blood, Winterfell shall remain. Should a winter come so cold that fires cannot be lit and bones break at a touch, Winterfell will lie heated and undiminished. Should lightning strike each tower thrice and rain turn the North to a pile of mud, Winterfell will watch over it still. And should a Bolton bastard and a Greyjoy traitor burn what little they can and tear down less, when we true Northerners return it shall still be our heart, as sure as ever, but we shall hold it twice as fast."

It was to the sound of those words that Kennet and Alysanne crossed the threshold of the castle, the clan chiefs following behind them.

The courtyard they entered after passing through the outer and inner walls was bordered on their right by the Maester's tower, and on their left by the rookery, which had a covered bridge to the Bell Tower which was further left still, and marked the corner of the hundred-foot Inner Wall. In the yard at the towers' bases, there had clearly been stables, kennels, smithies, and a large training yard, but the stables and kennels were partly burnt and partly collapsed, and the smithy was gone. Directly in front of them was the Great Hall, which backed onto the Great Keep and had a kitchen area which extended towards the North gate, conveniently neighbouring the glass gardens, in which crops were grown when it was possible, but no more; the glass was smashed and the framework torn.

Further away, bordering the courtyard still, lay the Library Tower, badly burnt twice over, near the East Gate. Circling about the Inner Wall from there would lead to more of the courtyard, then the Broken Tower and the First Keep, which was wide enough, though half collapsed, to be within touching distance of both the Armoury, which was attached to the Great Keep by a covered bridge, and the aforementioned Broken Tower. The Guard Hall and barracks neighboured the armoury closely, and they met with the Great Keep and the Inner Wall to encircle the castle's Godswood, from which a downwards stair led to the Crypts of Winterfell, where the Stark Kings and Lords of the North and of Winterfell were buried.

(Of course, Kennet, having not been within Winterfell previously, was at this point unaware of the nuances of naming and arrangement which he would soon come to know. However, description adds to the story somewhat, and it is good to assert, though this is only rudimentary, some form of layout of Winterfell which is moderately compliant with that hinted at by Martin. He doesn't exactly include blueprints as much as he includes stories about each place, and charming as that is, it falls short of any indication of the fortress's overall structure.)

"We'll need wood, and craftsmen," he remarked. "Stonemasons too, I expect; some of these towers are not in the best condition."

"The latter is not a new problem," Alysanne told him. "The First Keep has been disused for decades. That it is collapsed is something of a mercy; mayhaps it shall finally be restored to usefulness now it looks so unseemly. No Lord would want their castle to look like that. And the Broken Tower is, well, broken; home to only rats and crows now. It has been for the better part of a century."

"Nonetheless, if they are to be restored stonemasons will be needed. Best they start now. Our men can serve as foresters, and with luck skilled tradespeople will be present in the Winter's Town who can be employed to repair the gates; without them, we are open to attack. Messengers should be sent to the town while daylight remains, and foresters for wood; for fires and building."

Alysanne nodded. "We can quarter the men in the barracks hall and assign the cooks to the kitchens. In the meantime, the soldiers should be sorted through to divide into watches; which will sleep when, which will guard when, which will work on the castle or collect wood at which times, and so on."

"It should be easily enough to sort, by captain or company or allegiance or what-have-you, or even skill. Certainly it would be an advantage to have those Glover men we have working with the wood and the trees."

"But all that can wait for now; we need to set watches on the walls for the night and send what scouts we can to watch the roads and trails. The Boltons cannot be allowed to catch us by surprise. In the meantime, however, an attempt to put the gates in some state of repair should be undergone immediately. Anyone could walk in and quite frankly it's worrying. A makeshift barricade must be on each one by nightfall at least. I'll head over to Lyle, the Glover captain, and see if his men would be willing to re-enter the forest with that Olyvar fellow, wherever he's got to," Alysanne told him, turning her horse to trot away as she finished.

"And me?" Kennet questioned, quietly.

Alysanne turned her head, frowning. "You get off that horse and find something to do. If you're the equivalent of the King's hand, you should be able to identify a priority and tackle it." And with those words, she rode off in search of the Glovers.

Kennet scowled for a second or two, before pausing in thought.

_She has a point. _It was undeniable that, of the two of them, Kennet was not the authoritarian or decision-maker. His role between the two of them, as he was with the King, was that of a councillor... and yet he was the one who had been given, to some degree at least, permission to wield the King's authority. Kennet would have to make use of it and himself, or likely lose both the authority and the respect of Jon Stark.

_But I am not decisive, not a leader. Alysanne can tell, I can tell, every one of these soldiers probably can too. _He had come to them a messenger. A favoured messenger, yes, but no less a messenger for it, and certainly not a leader. _Olyvar directed the group to Winterfell, but only once here can others come to the fore and direct our actions._ Kennet was not a particularly self-confident man; his choices had always been logical, and when speaking of them he was persuasive, but he was doubtlessly his own biggest doubter.

His worries, however, now turned to the tenuous position he had managed to achieve. Kennet had dreamed when younger not just of becoming a great warrior but doing great things for his father, for his home, and of making himself a name to be proud of in absence of his surname. Now, he had, through choosing to fight rather than trade, made something of himself entirely inadvertently. But none who rose fast could not fall faster. There had been thousands of inconsequential figures throughout history who time inevitably forgot. Few people of consequence, at least those who remained so, suffered the indignity of being lost to the mists of human memory.

_The Mad King had four Hands in a single year, and I doubt even he could tell you who they'd all been by the end of it. I will not allow myself to follow in their footprints. _For that, Kennet needed to make himself useful, fast.

Of course, anything Kennet did would be useless if King Jon himself had not prevailed over whichever foe had been pursuing his forces, but within the next few days it was likely they would arrive, or a messenger would, bearing news of the result of the potential conflict. _Until then, I help here._

Kennet nodded quietly to himself, taking note of the fact that the majority of the troops who had entered the castle so far were gathered about the base of one of the towers, leaning against the walls or sitting. Further investigation - a more focused glance - revealed that the Norrey, head of the Norrey clansmen, was amongst them.

_There should be a Stark here._ Organising the lodgings and storage was not a job for a man new to the castle. Kennet would have to make do, or find someone who knew their way around better to explain the layout of the castle to him and explain what, or who, should go where.

Deciding to speak first to a person whose name he knew, Kennet dismounted from Tor, tying him to a ring on the wall near where the stables had clearly been. He stroked the horse's head gently before making his way to his destination. There were a few wandering clansmen in the courtyard, which he passes on his way to the Norrey, who was surrounded by his own clansmen where he leant against Winterfell's inner wall. The man himself caught sight of Kennet quickly, and pushed away from the wall to stand vertically, walking forwards. "Kennet, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, Norrey, you have a keen memory," Kennet told the man, as the man in question exited the circle of men to stand before him. "How was the journey for you?"

"Well enough. I've been... thinking about what you said, about the Wildlings. They're truly fleeing?" The man appeared concerned beneath his beard.

Kennet nodded in response. "I've spoken to too many of them not to believe it. They love their home, each and every one; they hold a strong disdain for all things South of the Wall. And a hundred thousand of them left it, to come here and to stay at the Wall. It's not nothing that makes them do this. It's certainly something, and it's certainly coming. I don't know if it can pass the Wall, but I can only hope not. We may have to throw it back."

The Norrey grunted, hand sinking to his sword. "My clan's homes are in the northernmost of the mountains, and we would not flee them were there any other choice. We know how to hunt there, to fight there, to hide. But these thousands have run, and now this threat is sure to look Southwards, beyond the Wall. My clan is the closest to the Wall. If this threat passes, it shall be my friends who die first. My wife. My children."

"If they pass the Wall, they won't stop at the Mounntains. They'll come for Karhold, for Widow's Watch, for Winterfell. We must stop the threat at the Wall... But we must first secure our position south of it, garrison Winterfell; and for that, I would have you help me," Kennet told him. "Do you know where I might find a man here who knows the layout of the castle, or even several, so that an organised search and analysis of the state of the buildings can be made?"

The Norrey thought for a second. "A fair few of the elder men have been here before, and should be able to direct people to the barracks, at the very least. Hold on a second, I'll have them brought over." He turned and spoke briefly to a younger lad, who quickly nodded and ran off in search.

"Thank you," Kennet told him. "We need to organise the castle fast if we're to have defences in place when the King - or the Boltons - arrive, whichever first. Have you any idea how many soldiers this castle should hold? I have none."

"Winterfell was said of old to host ten thousand at a stretch, but before now upwards of thirty thousand have been temporarily garrisoned here, though I would guess that the difference is made up of little more than tents outside the walls."

"That shouldn't be troubling until the Wildlings' twenty thousand arrive, then..." Kennet trailed off. The wildlings with their skinchangers should be able to work as excellent scouts if they got to Winterfell before the Boltons did. In the meantime, though, Kennet stopped staring into the distance and turned back to the Norrey. "We'll also need men knowledgeable in scouting and tracking to watch the Kingroad, and other paths and tracks, for Bolton forces. Are there hunters and trackers amongst your clansmens' number?"

The Norrey nodded. "Many remained in the mountains to provide for their families through the coming winter. But several are here, including the best of them; Collison, his name is. Tracked a Shadowcat itself to the den once and it never sensed him." To Kennet's raised eyebrows, the man replied, "Oh, you get 'em here, too. There are probably hundreds in the mountains and a few in the rest of the North, too, though they're rarely seen. They aren't all North of the Wall, you know! I-" The Norrey was cut off by the sound of a commotion on the other side of the courtyard, where a number of men gathered about the rubble surrounding a half-collapsed tower - the First Keep. A few of the men were reaching for weapons, and one called for spears across the courtyard.

Kennet and the Norrey locked eyes for a second, before turning and striding through the mess of men in various states of preparation for battle, towards the source of the problem, which became all the more apparent when one of the men finally alerted others to the cause of the commotion with a yell of "Shadowcat!"

As if at a signal, Kennet felt a strong, deep-rooted panic for a second, and felt hostile presences around him. He flinched, glancing around, before his eyes honed in on the group of men about the Keep and the circle they had formed, several spears lowered, and it clicked.

He caught up with the Norrey a few seconds later and set a faster pace.

By the time they reached the ring, it was clear that the men surrounding a hole at the base of the stone wall were more scared than truly wishing to attack; but for a single man with a spear a couple of metres from the hole, who had no beard and long hair, tied back. "Collison," the Norrey called him, "Is it true? A shadowcat this daring? This far south?"

"I'm not sure it counts as daring if they don't know what they're trying to do, but I will admit they don't usually come so near buildings. Perhaps it's a birthing mother, looking for shelter. They'd usually use a cave. I guess this is a fair enough substitute."

"It's not birthing," Kennet told them, coming up alongside and close to the pair who already had their heads together. "It's waiting."

"How do you know? And if it is, then what for?" Collison asked, eyes still focused entirely on the hole and spearhead motionless as he crouched, low and ready.

Kennet glanced around to ensure none were in the too-near vicinity... and whispered, "It's been waiting for me... And I know because tales of skinchangers are not entirely false." He glanced between the two of them, watching their reactions. The Norrey's face spoke of surprise, moderate suspicion, and relaxation, while Collison looked him in the eyes and nodded, slowly.

Kennet was moderately suspicious as to the meaning of the second reaction, but paid it little mind, instead straightening and turning. "The shadowcat will not harm any who do not harm it first. There is no cause for concern; it is a companion of mine." He glances about and spies the young man who had been sent to find those who knew the layout of the castle a short way off, a group of elder clansmen behind him. "For now, the courtyard is low on room. Take the lead of those who know the castle better," Kennet said, gesturing to the group, "and settle into the castle's barracks. Does the castle have a barracks?" he asked as he turned to the man at the head of the group, who was younger than most of them and shorter than all. Kennet put him in his mid-thirties.

In answer, the man pointed to a large, tall building opposite the Keep.

Kennet glanced over the men. "Organise yourselves. Find quarters. Any skilled enough and willing to to scout the roads and forewarn us of the coming of the Boltons can assemble tomorrow at dawn, preferably those with horses. Those willing to take watches on the castle's walls tonight go and get some rest now. You'll need it. The rest of you, make yourselves useful if you can. Clear burnt wood, make sure there are no more potentially unwelcome visitors in the other towers, clean the castle up and clean yourselves up. This is an army, not a rabble; Roose Bolton and his traitorous supporters are on their way, and time is running out. Make use of that which we have. Go to it," he commanded, and turned back to the Norrey, who was scowling.

"Most of those are my men, not yours," the clan chief told him. "They should obey me first."

Kennet glanced behind him to see that most of the crowd had indeed dispersed. "I apologise for any insult I have caused you, Norrey," he said as he looked back to the man's bearded face, "but I must do my duty. I have been commanded by the King to hold Winterfell with the men I found in the Wolfswood. Hence, for however short a time it turns out to be, this is my castle, and you are my men. As such, no matter the allegiance of the men, I have the right to command them. Oh, and by the way," he said, making as if to turn away but not doing so, "Those men should obey first their King, and only then their Lord. No?" To suggest otherwise would be treason, and so Kennet felt confident enough that the Norrey will keep his mouth shut for a while that he turns to Collison. "Your name has been brought forwards as a potential scout to look for the Bolton forces and report their movements over the next few days. If it is agreeable to you, I would like you to lead the group that sets out tomorrow."

"Scouting where?"

"South of here, along the Kingsroad among other paths leading between Barrowton and Winterfell. Is that agreeable?"

Collison nodded. "We shall leave at first light."

"Good. Get some rest." Kennet clapped the man on the shoulder, and Collison nodded to both him and the Norrey before departing.

"And me? Where will you send me off to then? You've commanded my men and my friend away," the Norrey growled when they were alone.

Kennet grinned a wry grin. "I would have you by my side, in case it transpires that I have mistakenly identified the shadowcat underneath this tower. It may transpire that you needs must call for assistance while I am otherwise engaged having my face ripped apart."

The Norrey sighed, resignedly. "You're not a bad type, you know. This could be so much worse." Another sigh. "Very well, Kennet, very well. I shall guard you for a while."

Kennet's response was a nod. He faced the hole, the darkness, and tried to peer into it. He had no idea what to do, or to say, to see if this was the cat or not, or even if it was there, but it must have sensed him, because two orange eyes opened amongst the shadows, and blinked at him slowly, before rising, as the cat stood and prowled forwards, into the light.

Kennet knelt, down to her face level. She sniffed at him, and he reached out to her gently. She allowed him to scratch behind her ear for a few seconds, before flicking it as if annoyed, and he withdrew his hand quickly. There was a sense of calm about her, of a noble dignity and pride, though it lessened somewhat when she shook, dust from the cave billowing in all directions from her black fur with its thin white stripes. He blinked slowly as she looked into his eyes, and she did the same.

He smiled, careful not to show his teeth in case of misinterpretation.

"What's her name?" questioned the Norrey from behind him.

Kennet kept looking into her deep orange eyes, searching for the answer, and as he did so she stepped closer and gently touched her nose to his, this part of him that was an entirely different being, but was tied to his heart, his...

"Spirit," Kennet answered, and then he nodded to himself. It fit the cat's personality well. He smiled at her again. "Do you like it? Spirit?" Spirit gently nuzzled the side of his face. "I'll take that as a yes," he told her, running his hands through her fur and listening to a purr resonate from her chest and feeling the throbbing of her heart.. He smiled softly, and never wanted to move from that spot with her. Unfortunately, duties called, and it was not long before the Norrey interrupted again and he was needed elsewhere, but Kennet was content. He'd found a name for her, and she'd found him, and they'd found Winterfell. Things were looking up.


End file.
